


Amaranth

by davaia



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Class Differences, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Growing Up, M/M, Pâtisserie in Space, Reunions, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/pseuds/davaia
Summary: A small, sweet story about small, sweet things.





	1. Rivers, Ducks, Cookies, and Crumpets

Summer descended hot and unrelenting on Asmeru’s Twelfth Moon. 

It seemed to happen in the span of one night—to fall asleep next to the green-damp breath of spring, and wake to a shimmering, orange heat so inescapable, it quieted almost everything except the field cicadas and evening flicker-flies. 

It made the heat of the oven nearly unbearable, especially for an antsy ten-year-old boy. Qui-Gon had long since abandoned his post in the kitchen in favor of the large shop-windows out front. He clutched a forgotten bowl of macerated sunberries to his chest, nose pressed against the mesh screen as he watched the outside world, rapt. 

"You’re making a mess, sprout," his mother cautioned him as she came in from the storage room. As timeless and ageless as any child’s mother—Maran was a sturdy, bronze-haired tree of a woman, impossibly tall and infinitely strong beneath the heavy flour sack flung over her shoulder. She thunked it onto the countertop in a belching, puffy-white cloud that clung to her bare arms and linen apron. 

"Mum, look—" Qui-Gon indicated out the window with a tip of his chin, swiping the runaway-dribbles of orange nectar from the side of the mixing bowl. He licked it off his fingers. "Who is that?" 

She came to stand behind Qui-Gon, arms crossed as she watched over his shoulder. " _That_ ," she said, sing-song, "is the family that owns this moon." 

Outside, a long line of sleek, chrome speeders—at least twelve of them, personal transport and haulers alike—wound slowly up the shady hillside. At the very top, its pointed roofline just visible over the treetops, sat the Archon’s manor house—a sprawling, ancient, colonnaded mansion of wood and stone and real glass. For as long as he’d known it, the place had sat unoccupied, quiet and resplendent, in its high lookout over the forest and village below. 

"All of it?" Qui-Gon asked around sticky-sweet fingers crammed into his mouth. 

"Aye," Maran said cheerily. "Every pebble." 

"It seems wrong that just one family could own a whole moon." 

"I can’t say, but we’ve never wanted for food or a roof over our heads," Maran replied. She reached out and steadied the mixing bowl in her son’s grasp again. "That’s not something to be taken for granted. The Kenobis seem to be of a good enough sort." 

Twelve provinces, twelve dynasties, twelve moons. Qui-Gon honestly didn’t know much about their own little moon’s Archon or his family. They were a near-mythical, otherworldly thing for him: owners of the Twelfth, born and bred from Asmeru’s ancient Oban province—rulers chosen by divine right and borne from blood and mystic ritual. They existed worlds and civilizations away from Qui-Gon’s simple, sheltered home in their night sky. 

It made Qui-Gon absolutely _itchy_ with curiosity. "Why are there so many of them?" 

"They have to run that nice house somehow," his mum replied. "I’d reckon they have twenty staff for every member of that family. Come on now—" she clapped her hands onto his shoulders, "—one more batch of snowflake rolls, then water the plants and you’re off the hook for today, sprout." She steered him back around towards the kitchen. "And wash those filthy hands!" 

Maran’s shop couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a greenhouse or a bakery, so it hovered, fat and happy, somewhere in between. The deep, wood windowsills were cluttered with great pots of creeping vines and troughs of herbs and bright, edible flowers—most of which would end up carefully plucked and washed and baked into rich loaves of bread or sweet, floral pastries with a dough so delicate and flaky, his mum was the only one on all the moons skilled enough to make it. 

He covered the sunberries and set them in the cooler to gel overnight; then he cut out three dozen squashy rolls, tenderly painted them with egg-wash, dusted them in a tiny blizzard of flour, and set them to proof; he filled the watering can and hauled it, sloshing and dribbling, around the first floor, up the creaky stairs and through the second floor, high up to his attic loft, and back down again to water their sprawling menagerie of plants. 

And when all that was done, Qui-Gon raided the kitchen cupboard so he could stuff his pockets full of stale, leftover bread chunks. "Mum! I’m gone outside!" he shouted over his shoulder, but her reply was lost beneath the banging screen door and thud of his bare feet on the wooden porch steps. 

Qui-Gon and his mother’s little river village was called just that. River Village, as simple and plain-spoken as its four-hundred-and-twenty-one inhabitants. It had originally been built in a large clearing within the dense and sheltering forest—but over time, the forest seemed to have accepted the squat, wood buildings for its own kind, and started to grow back in around them. 

Only ten steps from the porch and Qui-Gon was lost among the trees. 

The dirt path he followed wound and hopped and skipped around ancient, gnarled muja-tree roots and great, downed trunks gone soft and musty with decay, colonized by verdant moss and frilly capped mushrooms. It was hushed here in a way no other place could be—interrupted only by the songbirds and the rustle of leaves in their green-filtered sunlight. 

The Twelfth was known for many of its natural wonders, just one of which was the summer amaranth bloom. Eventide Amaranth had first arrived as an invasive species, winding and weaving its way up and around and through the Twelfth’s native trees—but it bloomed so bright and beautifully that everyone had just decided to welcome it as a new neighbor, rather than a nuisance. They had named the plant for its brilliant array of colors—vibrant jewel-tones of blue and purple, fiery-deep red and gold, as if it had soaked up the rich summer sunsets only to give them back in its hanging, clustered blossoms. 

Qui-Gon loved his home, every part of it. He’d wondered, once or twice, if it were possible to love a place without ever having known anything else—how could he know love if he’d never experienced the absence of it? 

He’d never come up with an answer, but he wasn’t so bothered by it. At the end of the day, he didn’t think these sorts of prescriptive, philosophical questions truly mattered as long as he and his mum were happy and doing alright in life. 

Qui-Gon knew his way unthinkingly—had always known it, he imagined, like some inherited memory from his homesteading ancestors. He slowed his pace, skimming his fingers through the silken amaranth florets as he walked, picking up their subtle perfume on his skin. Soon enough, the path opened up into a large and sunny clearing; the oxbow of the river here was deep and slow, almost still, and up until this moment, it had belonged to Qui-Gon and Qui-Gon alone. 

But sitting on the riverbank was the littlest boy Qui-Gon thought he’d ever seen. 

Well, probably not the littlest—but very, very small. He was sitting on the grassy slope, knobby knees pulled up below his chin, dressed in a mismatched jumble of clothing—clean sneakers, baggy shorts, and a blue-knit sweater so big it threatened to swallow him whole. 

The boy’s expression was clouded, thoughtful as he watched the river and all its summer creatures. When his head swiveled up at Qui-Gon’s approach, he reminded Qui-Gon of one of those flighty, wide-eyed firebirds that hopped and skittered around his mum’s garden. 

"Oh." The little boy frowned up at him. "Hello there," he said. "What’s wrong with the water here?" 

Qui-Gon’s steps faltered. "Huh?" he said at first, confused by this strange greeting. "What’d you mean?" 

The boy pointed at the river, sleeve puddling around his elbow. "Why does it do that? Light up like that?" 

Qui-Gon had heard about the _water of Asmeru’s Twelfth Moon_. He supposed it was something he’d taken for granted—the way it refracted back rainbows of sunlight, the way it moved like clear, cold-molten glass, pushing and pulling against its own current. He’d never seen anything different, so he’d never really considered the appeal. 

"It’s the Force," Qui-Gon said resolutely. 

The boy’s frown deepened, a little crease appearing between his brows. "I don’t know what that means." 

"It’s a—thing that binds everything together. Like an energy field, but it’s everywhere and in everything." Qui-Gon crossed his arms. "It’s hard to explain." 

Qui-Gon didn’t know how to explain it at all, not really. Stories of the Force were just part of life on the Twelfth—like air and water and Asmeru’s great, pinky-gold silhouette hovering in the sky. He’d heard about it in the stories his mother used to tell him at night, from the mouths of his elders in their moments of joy and sorrow and birth and death and everything between. _It’s the will of the Force_. It just always _was and would be_. 

"It just _is_ ," Qui-Gon insisted. 

The boy didn’t look convinced. "That just sounds rather like physics to me." 

"It’s more complicated than that. Physics is made out of the Force. Anyway," Qui-Gon said, "What are you doing here?" 

The boy glanced sideways at him. "Is that supposed to be an existence question? Are we still talking about the Force?" 

"Nope, I’m asking. Who are you?" 

"I’m Ben," the boy said and jutted his chin out. "Who are _you?_ " 

"Qui-Gon. D’you come with the rich family?" 

"The who?" 

Qui-Gon pointed off in the general direction of the estate. The high, peaked roof of the manor house was just visible over the dense tree line. "Them. They had lots of people." 

"Oh," Ben said, forehead wrinkling. "Yes." 

"I could tell," Qui-Gon said resolutely, settling down at the boy’s side. "You talk like a fancy grandmum." 

"I don’t know what that means, either," Ben admitted, cheeks just beginning to flush with embarrassment. 

"It’s not a bad thing," Qui-Gon backpedaled, "it’s just the way people from the big planet talk. We get a lot of them, yeah? People say they come here to _get away from things_ ," he explained, "but I don’t get why they keep living lives they have to plan to get away from. Anyway," Qui-Gon shrugged and stretched his dirty, bare feet out, "people from the Twelfth don’t sound like that, is all." 

His mum said they had an accent that sounded like a _singing tippler teeter-tottering happily home in the dark_. Qui-Gon still didn’t entirely know what that meant, but he was pretty sure Ben didn’t need to know it. 

"I’m not certain I quite like it here," Ben said, bordering on morose. 

"How come?" 

"The air feels funny. It’s too bright. I find the trees to be—" Ben chewed his lower lip as he struggled to find the proper word. " _Unsettling_." 

"Un- _set_ -tling," Qui-Gon mimicked the boy’s posh accent, but not maliciously. The sound of it reminded him of his mum’s lace cookies, delicate and golden-warm and crispy-sweet. He liked it very much. "What’re the trees like on-planet?" 

Ben looked at him curiously. "Have you not been there?" 

"I’ve never left the Twelfth." 

Ben seemed to puzzle over that for a moment. "We don’t have any trees, really," he said thoughtfully. "There’s just grass and some rather big rocks. In the part where we live, at least." 

"Sounds boring." 

That earned a hesitant smile from Ben. "Quite." 

" _Quite_ ," Qui-Gon echoed again, breaking into a grin now. "Do they all have hair like that, on the big planet?" He meant the color—a deep, burnished, coppery red like the inside of Maran’s hammered cooking pots. He’d never seen anything quite like it. Not on anyone born and raised on the Twelfth, at least, where people only had pitch-dark shades of black and brown. 

Ben scuffed his sneaker against a wayward river-stone that gleamed onyx and deep red, polished smooth from the water. "I—don’t know?" he answered. He was beginning to look a bit lost again. 

Qui-Gon didn’t want that. He decided that, if anything, he wanted this strange boy to look _found_. He abruptly changed gears and pulled a handful of crumbly, stale bread chunks out of his pocket. "Wanna feed them?" he asked, tipping his head towards the cluster of paddle-ducks bobbing sleepily near the shoreline. 

"Ducks eat worms and algae," Ben said gravely. "Bread isn’t good for them." 

"Well, ducks need dessert, too!" Qui-Gon grinned and pitched up onto his feet. "Here, take some—" he said, holding out the bread for Ben’s inspection. "My mum made it," he added, as if that might sweeten the offer. 

Ben hugged his knees a bit tighter, eyes flitting back and forth between Qui-Gon’s face and his outstretched hand. "I think I’ll just watch, thank you." 

"Suit yourself," Qui-Gon said with an easy shrug, unoffended. All at once he threw the breadcrumbs into the water, sending the paddle-ducks into a squawking frenzy as they snapped their yellow bills and dove for them. Qui-Gon heard a short, delighted snort-giggle behind him, and grinned at the happy sound. He felt Ben watching as he tugged his shirt over his head, throwing it haphazardly off to the side so he was down to nothing but shorts. 

"Now what are you doing?" asked Ben. 

"What’s it look like?" Without waiting for an answer, Qui-Gon whooped and pitched himself forward in a great, sprawling, crashing bellyflop. The river was still bracingly cold so early in the summer and he resurfaced with a breathy shout, shaking his overlong hair out of his face. "Can’t you swim?" he called back to Ben, bobbing just like the ducks as he kicked to keep himself above the water. 

"Of course I can!" Ben said hotly, then faltered as his expression wavered. "Is it—is it quite safe?" 

"Find out!" Qui-Gon sank into a back-float and gleefully spat out a mouthful of water. 

Ben moved slowly and carefully. He rocked back and untied one shoe, nudging it off, then the other. He peeled off his socks, shrugged out of his big sweater and undershirt, folding and stacking everything into a neat pile in the grass. He was stick-skinny, skin so sun-starved and pale-blank-white, it made Qui-Gon wonder if Asmeru got any sunlight at all, or if it just got sucked up by the Twelfth Moon’s trees and magical rivers. 

Ben hugged his arms to his chest and hovered like a nervous nerba-cat at the edge of the water. 

Maran had always said Qui-Gon had a way with _timid little lifeforms_. She’d meant the songbirds and paddle-ducks and finicky houseplants, but Qui-Gon wondered if that might include strange little boys named Ben, too. "It’s safe!" he called out, then pointed at a spot farther down the bank. "It’s shallower and warmer over there!" Qui-Gon smacked his hands against the surface of the water, sending up a bright, iridescent spray around his own face. "It’s fine! I promise!" 

First wiggling toes, then ankles, then knobby knees—Ben inched his way into the water and, upon finding it unthreatening to his satisfaction, finally plunked himself down waist-deep near the shore. He sat cross-legged, happy, it seemed, just to stay there and poke his fingers at the river-hoppers and darting schools of shimmer-minnows. 

That was very good progress, Qui-Gon decided. 

They lingered for hours in the dozy, afternoon heat. Qui-Gon’s fingers and toes grew all pruny, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and he’d long since decided that he was happy to share his secret summer-river-place with Ben-from-Asmeru. 

Ben himself was napping in the grass, soggy blue sweater tucked under his cheek as a makeshift pillow. A tiny pink-shelled snail had made its home on the back of his left hand, and Qui-Gon felt a twinge of guilt when he picked it off to wake Ben up. 

"You’re gonna burn up if you stay out here much longer," he said, poking Ben’s shoulder and sitting back on his heels as Ben stirred. "You’ve already got new freckles," he pointed out, feeling a bit self-satisfied at that, as Ben blinked at him with sleepy green eyes. "C’mon," Qui-Gon bade him, offering a helping hand, "My house is just up the hill." 

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder, barefoot through the woods and along the ambling path. They caught early-rising flicker-flies as they went, Ben bright-eyed and exuberant in his delight, Qui-Gon bright-eyed and exuberant in the odd little boy’s delight. 

Twilight had just settled when the back of the shop came into view, its windows bright with golden lamplight. The evening smelled of summer in a way that was familiar down to Qui-Gon’s bones: warm field-grass, yeasty proofing bread, hot baking-stones, cold river water. 

The porch light came on. "Do I have two sons now?" Maran called down to them from the back door. "And both soggier than pond-frogs?" 

"This is Ben!" Qui-Gon shouted back, flapping an arm towards Ben, as if his mum could ever have confused the two. "He came with the rich family!" 

"Did you, now?" Maran asked, looking Ben up and down when they made it up to the house. Her gaze lingered for a moment too long on his auburn hair. "Well, come in—goodness, you’re a small thing, aren’t you?" she said, ushering him through the door. "Inside, then." 

When the front bake shop closed up, the building was just _home_. Maran bundled them up in a pair of matching towels and herded them to the kitchen table by the lingering warmth of the big oven. Tall glasses of blue milk appeared first, followed by a plate of chewy ginger cookies—spicy-warm and soft on the inside, with a thick, crackled crust dusted in crystals of raw sugar that Qui-Gon loved to crunch between his teeth. 

Ben pushed the plate towards Qui-Gon, but Maran interrupted him. 

"Those’er yours, Ben," she said, setting a second plate down in front of her son. 

Ben blinked twice, then his eyes grew wide and bright. "Two cooki— _two_ cookies?" he whispered, chancing a glance up at Maran. His little fingers crept forward over the tabletop again, lighting on the edge of the plate like it was something precious and holy. "I can have—both of them?" 

" _Both_ of them," she assured him. 

" _Wizard_ ," Ben whispered, awe-struck, and nudged the treat closer. He abruptly plunked his elbows on the tabletop and appeared to take wicked, hedonistic delight in stacking the cookies together like a sandwich and eating both at once. He had forgotten his somber, grown-up bearing down at the river, it seemed, slipping unawares back into his right and proper age. 

Qui-Gon felt a tiny spark of triumph for it, but he wasn’t sure why. "You don’t eat cookies?" he asked, eyes bright with mirth and curiosity alike. 

" _Huh_ -uh," Ben said around a mouthful. "an’ 'ot 'ike 'ese." 

Soon enough, darkness tucked itself around the little village, gentle with its chorus of night-peepers and crickets and golden-bright flicker-flies; it softened the afternoon heat with a breeze that Maran greeted with thrown-open doors and windows. Plates were cleared and glasses were refilled, and Qui-Gon lost himself in teaching Ben how to play novacrown at the kitchen table—Qui-Gon on greens and Ben on blues. 

The boys were three games in when a metallic knock at the door interrupted their happy, busy quiet. Ben froze for a moment, hand hovering above the game board, and then his whole body wilted down into his chair. He turned a pitiful look past Qui-Gon, towards the door. 

Maran didn’t need words to understand the question in Ben’s eyes. "I commed up to the house," she said quietly. She squeezed Ben’s shoulder as she passed, reassuring him with a mother’s touch. "They’ll be worrying about you by now." 

"I know," Ben whispered, head hanging. 

"Who?" Qui-Gon asked, confusion and concern apparent on his face. Game forgotten, he twisted around in his chair. "Who’d you comm, mum?" 

Maran took a moment to smooth down her shirtsleeves, then opened the door to a sleek, chrome-plated nanny droid. 

"Good evening, ma’am," the droid said. Its voice was a strange mix of toneless and soothing, coded neither male nor female. It tilted its head to the side, appearing to look around Maran’s shoulder, and added, "Good evening, Master Obi-Wan." 

"Am I in trouble?" Ben asked meekly. 

"Not as of yet, young sir," the droid said, "though I might suggest we hop to." 

Ben slid off his chair, leaving the fluffy, green towel behind. He didn’t look at Qui-Gon; rather, he clutched his sweater against his stomach and glanced up at Maran, tentative. "Could I come back?" 

"Of course you can," Maran said warmly. "Just ask your mum and da first, alright?" 

"Ask my—" Ben’s brow wrinkled, then looked up at the droid in an unspoken question. 

"I shall relay the message to them, young sir." It gestured with a smooth hand. "I have the speeder waiting." 

"Yes, alright." 

The droid gave Ben a pointed look, or the closest it was able to. 

"Oh," the little boy whispered, then straightened his posture with almost comical seriousness. He lifted his chin. "Thank you, it was very generous of you to give me two cookies, Missus—Missus—" 

"Jinn," Maran supplied kindly. "And you’re always welcome, dove." 

Ben’s ears pinked at the endearment, and he appeared to falter a bit. "And… Qui-Gon…" 

"For?" the droid prompted automatically. 

"For—for ducks and for novacrown," Ben added. He looked lost for just a moment, then gave a stiff, formal sort of nod and folded his hands at the small of his back. "We may go now," he said, solemn-faced. 

"Very good, sir," the droid said, its hand hovering just behind Ben’s shoulders as it ushered him out of the door and down the steps. 

"You can just call me Qui," Qui-Gon called out, but he didn’t know if Ben heard. He got up and went to watch through the screen, and something strange knotted up in his chest when he saw Ben reach out for the droid’s cool hand to hold. He glanced over, and his mother’s face looked the way he felt—cloudy, almost troubled, as they watched Ben climb into the idling speeder with his guardian. 

"Go upstairs and run your bath," Maran said, shaking off the moment. She nudged Qui-Gon back and gently shut the door, cutting off the porch light. "I’ll clean up." 

  


* * *

  


Ben warmed to the river and its colorful parade of paddle-ducks. 

At least it seemed that way when Qui-Gon found him the next afternoon, perched on the grassy bank with his pale feet dangling in the water. He had a lap full of freshly picked muja fruit, fingers stained pink with the nectar. 

"When you said you came with the rich family, I thought you meant all the people helpin’ them," Qui-Gon said without preamble. "An’ I thought your name was Ben." 

Ben looked up at his approach, unsurprised by it this time, then gave a diffident little shrug. "My name is both names. Do you ever wear shoes?" 

Qui-Gon settled down next to Ben and plucked a muja fruit out of his lap. He rubbed it clean on his own shirt and pulled his knees up. "Not if I don’t have to," he said and wiggled his toes for the sake of it. 

They watched the river together for a while, comfortable in the moment, sharing the fruit between them and tossing the peels down into the water. "You don’t seem very happy," Qui-Gon finally said, casting Ben a sideways glance. 

That didn’t appear to bother Ben. He just looked thoughtful, staring down at the glossy pink juice drying on his fingertips. "I don’t know what I am," he admitted, "but I don’t think it matters all that much." 

"Of course it does!" Qui-Gon cried, offended on Ben’s behalf. "Why wouldn’t it?" 

"My life isn’t for me," Ben said with another, littler shrug. He tossed a drippy chunk of muja into the water for the ducks. They all dove for it at once, orange feet waggling in the air, and Ben smiled at that. Then his smile faded a bit. "I’m going to be the Archon one day, and I’m going to rule a whole province," he said. "My life belongs to the people my family serves. I can be Ben now, but one day I’ll be Obi-Wan all the time." He peered up at nothing in particular, squinting into the sunlight and intoned, " _We are chosen by that which is beyond us_." 

"I dunno what that means." 

"It means that being the Archon is a sacred duty," Ben explained, as if reading aloud from a text. "It’s a—we’re a living symbol for the things we believe in." He paused for a moment, searching for a word inside his own head. "For ideals. _Peace, Knowledge, Serenity, Harmony_. We—we must _become_ them when we become the Archon," he said. "My father does it now, and I’ll do it after him." 

Qui-Gon was quiet for a minute, mentally rearranging the various puzzle pieces in a way that made more sense—Ben did, but not much else around him did. "That doesn’t even make any sense," he finally said, decisive. "You can’t, what? Have any feelings that aren’t those four things? People can’t _do_ that." 

"That’s why we train and learn. For years," said Ben. "Years and years and years." 

"What if you sneeze? In public. Can you do that?" 

"Absolutely not," Ben replied flatly. 

Qui-Gon only realized that last bit was a joke when Ben’s mouth twitched up; Ben was trying to hold back his smile. Qui-Gon let some of his ire drain away, let himself be placated by Ben’s strange humor. "That seems awful," he said, more seriously now. 

Ben split open a fresh muja with a satisfying ripping sound. "It’s really not," he replied. "It’s like your Force. It’s how it’s always been." 

"For what? All eight years you’ve been alive?" 

" _Nine_ ," Ben sniffed. "I just meant that my family has done things the same way for a long time. Since before people even lived on the moons." He hands dropped into his lap, fruit juice soaking the tan fabric of his shorts. He was staring at Qui-Gon. "Why do you care?" Ben didn’t sound upset, but genuinely curious. 

"'Cause you’re my friend!" Qui-Gon cried, offended now on his own behalf. 

"Oh." Ben frowned. "Really? After one day?" 

"Yep," Qui-Gon said airily. "Nothin’ I can do about it. Just how it is." 

"What about after I go home?" 

"You’ll be back, yeah?" 

"I suppose so," Ben said thoughtfully, muja forgotten now. "I don’t really know. Mumma said she wants to summer here. Father didn’t want us to come, but Mumma insisted. I don’t know why." He glanced sideways and lowered his voice to a whisper, as if sharing something deeply secretive and shameful. "They had a big fight about it." 

"Well, just meet me here on the first day of summer. Or whenever you get here." Qui-Gon grinned and pitched back onto his hands. "It’s hard to miss, all those people pilin’ up to the house like they did." 

Ben seemed to think deeply about this for a moment. "Yes, alright," he finally said. 

And that was it. With the businesslike efficiency of children, they were best friends. 

Qui-Gon drummed his dirty feet against the ground, then he flopped backwards, head pillowed on his arms. Ben did too, mirroring Qui-Gon as if he were trying relaxation on for size. The muja he’d had in his lap rolled off into the soft grass between them. 

"Wanna swim?" asked Qui-Gon, his question directed towards the clouds. 

"BerT-Droid said I can’t swim again until tomorrow," Ben replied mournfully. "They said I got 43.7% more than the recommended maximum solar radiation exposure yesterday, and I have to wait a day." He paused and offered in consolation, "I’ve decided I quite like your trees now." 

That made Qui-Gon burst into a fit of bright, sunny laughter. A moment later, Ben met the laughter with his own lopsided grin. 

"C’mon." Qui-Gon sat up and held out his shirt to take half the muja. They split the pile between them and hauled it back up to the house—where Maran gladly cooked it down with ginger root into a thick jam, and gave it back to the boys on buttery, toasted crumpets. 

Two for each.  
  
  



	2. It Only Happens Every Few Decades

Ben kept his word, for the next summer and every one after. He grew into a _spirit_ of the summer—a whole season heralded by copper hair, patina-green eyes, and the slow, shy blossom of freckles over winter skin. ' _Hello there_ ' came to sound just like the dozy twilight-chorus of field cicadas, of long swims in the river and even longer naps, side by side, lulled by the wind and lazy rustle of sweetgrass. Even Ben’s name tasted like spiced cookies and lemon-ices and glasses of frosty muja juice on Qui-Gon’s tongue. 

The heat would fall, the amaranth would bloom, and his friends and schoolmates would leave for their own holidays—but the season never truly began until Qui-Gon saw that line of shiny speeders winding its way up the hillside. 

By the time he was fourteen, Qui-Gon had learned to tolerate the summer heat of the oven, working at his mum’s side in their big, airy kitchen. Matching in loose trousers and breezy linen tunics beneath their aprons, Maran would carefully fold her son’s sleeves up for him and tie his long hair into a messy knot on the back of his head, just like her own, until he learned to do it himself without any effort. 

"Right pair of twins, ye are!" their old neighbor-lady Yaddle would cackle, waving her cane by way of greeting, shuffle-thunking into the front shop for her morning tea and eggy-bread. "Can’t tell ye one from the other from the back. Not 'cause I can’t see for bantha shit, neither…" 

The rest of him was gangly and tripping over too-big feet, all beanpole limbs and big ears and a nose he’d broken through nothing but his own clumsiness and a devious puddle of rainwater. He’d broken his arm, too. It had earned him an enforced sabbatical from the kitchen after he knocked over a whole jar of expensive sugar pearls with his clunky plaster cast and got a great big glob of dough stuck in it that Maran had to fish out with the end of an old toothbrush. 

It was probably just as well. Qui-Gon was hardly able to keep up with the demands of his aching, growing body—and it seemed like any spare moment he didn’t spend eating everything in sight, he spent sleeping. Sleeping so hard, in fact, he’d woken up sometime before dinner one afternoon and stumbled down to the kitchen, completely unaware of what day it was. 

"Hello there, Qui!" Ben cried happily. 

Qui-Gon’s whole world brightened at once. "Ben!" 

"I found our dove out in the storm," Maran called over her shoulder. She looked up from her mixing bowl and nudged at Ben’s damp hair, reconsidering. "Or maybe you’re a pond-frog again?" 

Ben was sitting on the counter right next to her, balancing a plate of sparkleberry thumbprint cookies on his lap as he licked thick frosting off a beater. His favorite giant, blue-knit sweater—faded now and fraying a bit at the sleeves—was finally starting to fit him better. "We got in about an hour ago. Your mum said you broke your arm?" Ben’s eyes suddenly went wide and a blob of icing landed in his lap. "You’re so tall now! When did you get so tall?" 

"Last week," Qui-Gon said and swiped a cookie off Ben’s plate with an unabashed grin. He stuffed it into his mouth and added, "Knew you were comin’ so I waited t’do it all at once." He waved his cast. "Hurt like a kriffin’ rathtar!" 

"Language!" Maran tutted. 

"Sorry, Mum." 

" _Oh_ ," Ben gasped and snagged Qui-Gon’s shirt, pulling him around for a better look. "But your _nose_." 

  


* * *

  


It rained and rained that summer; the river ran too high and fast for swimming and the fields and forest swelled into great, green-shimmery ponds. They spent their time holed up in Qui-Gon’s bedroom, high in the building’s wood-creaky, dormered loft. It was one of the coziest rooms in the house, filled with creeping houseplants, thick rugs, holobooks and trinkets, and piles of bright patchwork quilts. The steep roof overhang meant Qui-Gon could throw his windows wide open in the heavy downpour and revel in the smell of rich, rain-damp forest and stone. 

There, he and Ben whiled away their weeks in happy, drowsy comfort, devouring holo-comics and Maran’s cookies and playing countless games of novacrown. 

"I miss you when I’m at home," Ben said out of nowhere. He was hanging upside down off the end of Qui-Gon’s bed, fingers laced atop his chest. Not doing much of anything, really, beyond listening to the downpour outside and observing the world from this new vantage point. 

Qui-Gon stirred, sluggish and overfull on day-old rhubarb-cheese pastries. He’d been half-asleep with a flimsy-print copy of _Galactic Scholastic: Rancors!_ fanned out over his face. He dragged it off to look over at Ben. "I miss you too," he said after a moment, then rolled to sit up against the wood-paneled wall. "I’ve tried looking for stuff on the holonet, but there isn’t anything. Just a lot of things about your da and his Great Council." 

" _High_ Council," Ben corrected automatically, which earned him a peevish look. He drummed his fingers against his chest. "And it’s illegal to holofilm an Archon’s family. Without permission, at least. People have gone to jail for it." 

"Really?" 

"Only for the truly awful things. Like trying to sneak onto the estate grounds, or something." 

Qui-Gon thought about that for a minute, brow knitted. Perhaps a bit unsettled by the idea of it. "You could comm me, you know." 

"I can’t, though," Ben said despondently. "It’s just—I can’t. It’s not allowed. Can I draw on your cast?" 

"In a minute—and it’s not allowed or _you’re_ not allowed?" Qui-Gon asked pointedly. He nudged Ben’s socked foot with his own. "Huh?" 

Ben craned his neck up and his withering expression answered for him. 

"That’s bantha shit." Qui-Gon felt dangerous using such language out loud, but it only seemed appropriate. 

"Is it?" Ben sounded a little lost, unsure. He rolled over and sat upright on the squashy bed, red-faced from hanging upside down. "I don’t—is it, though?" 

"Well, yeah," Qui-Gon said. "People aren’t meant to be alone like that." 

Ben looked worried and flopped back against the wall. He snagged Qui-Gon’s heavy quilt, dragging it up over his shoulders and head like a colorful, patchwork robe. "Shouldn’t I have known that?" he muttered, troubled. "I should’ve—" 

"Hey—" Qui-Gon reached over and nudged the blanket away from Ben’s face so it puddled down around his shoulders. Then he pressed his fingers against Ben’s brow, trying to smooth out the solemn little furrow in it. "You’re not supposed to look like that when you’re here," he said, and the words came out more seriously than he meant. That was alright, though, because it was a very serious thing, Ben Kenobi’s happiness. 

Ben stared at him between his splayed-out fingers, so Qui-Gon pushed them into Ben’s messy hair, scruffing it up even more. "That’s better. Yeah?" He drew back, but Ben’s thin hand clamped shut over his wrist, holding him tight in that strange moment of _in-between_. 

They sat that way for just a moment, silent, staring at each other, neither knowing what to say or even really breathing. Thunder rolled across the sky and a gust of damp air burst through the windows, cushioned on the smell of baking bread wafting up from the ground floor. His mum must’ve had the windows open too, Qui-Gon thought distantly. "…Ben?" 

Ben swallowed thickly and his grip tightened reflexively. "Nobody—nobody does that—" 

"Messes up your hair?" 

" _No_ —well, yes, but," Ben said, hesitantly, almost embarrassed. His posture slumped. "It’s just—touches me? They all back away like they’re afraid of me." 

"How could anyone be afraid of you?" asked Qui-Gon, indignant on his friend’s behalf. "You could fit in one of Mum’s teaspoons." 

"It’s not me, it’s rather like—the air around me, I think?" Ben let his hand slip away from Qui-Gon so he could fuss with the hem of his blanket-robe. "Like some frightening thing that follows me around, but it’s always behind me, so I can never see it when everyone else can." 

Qui-Gon scooted closer, until their shoulders bumped. "Even your family?" he asked, softer now. "Your mum and da don’t even hug you or anything?" 

"Not really," Ben admitted. "It’s just—my family isn’t like that. We’re not—" 

"Affectionate?" 

"De _mon_ strative," said Ben. "It’s not—not _becoming_ of a family in our position. _We are chosen by that which is beyond us_ ," he recited solemnly. 

Qui-Gon had never forgotten the first day they had met, how Ben had reached out for a hand to hold when he thought no one could see, and how the only one available to him was cold and metal and pre-programmed to respond. Qui-Gon thought he understood a little better, now, the strange and bothersome, heart-hurting feeling it gave him at the time. "Well, we don’t care about those things here," he said decisively. "So just don’t bring him." 

"Who?" 

" _Obi-Wan_ ," Qui-Gon replied. "Look. You said your life belongs to the people you serve, yeah?" 

"Yes?" 

"And your family serves the Twelfth, don’t they?" 

"Yes…" 

"Then your life belongs to _me_ , too," Qui-Gon said firmly. He waved his hand at the opened window, where Asmeru glimmered rose-gold, muted behind the afternoon’s rain and whirling, steely-grey clouds. "Not just the people up there. I want you to be Ben here, not Obi-Wan." Then Qui-Gon added with quiet determination, "And I’ll take good care of your life for you. I promise." 

Ben didn’t say anything. He just dropped his head slowly, almost hesitantly, and rested it on Qui-Gon’s shoulder. "I hadn’t thought of it that way," he admitted quietly, voice muffled in the fabric of Qui-Gon’s shirt. 

There was a rightness to it, wedged together like this in the blankets and the soft, yellow-flickering light of the room’s glow-globes. Against the damp and rainy world outside. Even more so when Qui-Gon slung his good arm across Ben’s skinny shoulders and dropped his chin on top of his friend’s head. He squeezed Ben close, easy with his physical affection now that it had blinked into existence between them. "I can’t see it," he mumbled into Ben’s hair. "Whatever it is that scares people." 

Ben’s face was smooshed into Qui-Gon’s neck and his words were muffled, but Qui-Gon heard all the same. 

" _Thank you_." 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon had inherited every ounce of his mother’s skill, and that became readily apparent through his years at her side. The bread-rolls and savory loaves—the money-making staples of their shop—were an easy thing for him. Those he could mix and bloom and knead and proof by heart, churning them out by the perfect dozens after he came home from school; it gave the dough just the right amount of rising-time for Maran to begin baking the trays off in the pre-dawn hours. 

Savory was one thing—but by the time he was seventeen, Maran had entrusted her son with the keys to the most coveted of all her kingdoms. 

_Pastries_. 

Qui-Gon was quick to master the basics: choux and pie and buttery laminated doughs, pillow-soft cakes, rich creams and airy mousses, syrups and ganaches and glazes and meringues and compotes. The shop didn’t often get special orders, but when it did, Maran gave him free rein over his creations. 

In this, at least, Qui-Gon’s fingers were nimble and sure, even while the rest of him was still gawky and clumsy, tripping over his own too-large feet. Qui-Gon’s nose never did quite heal right, either. It was a bit crooked now, but it didn’t bother Qui-Gon. Not after Ben solemnly and definitively pronounced that it _suited him rather nicely_. 

The summer Ben said that was the same summer he asked of Qui-Gon, very softly, "Will you tell me more about the Force?" 

It was long past dark. They were splayed out, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the river bank with nothing but the peepers and trees and Asmeru’s cloudy, rose-golden mass dominating the gloomy sky. The planet shimmered and pulsed with the nighttime lights of her vast continents. Qui-Gon knew the shape of Ben’s home province by heart now, knew its cities and great, empty plains. Knew exactly where to look the day Ben’s family departed from the Twelfth. 

Ben shifted in the grass next to him. "Does it bring people together?" 

"It brings everything together," Qui-Gon said. "Connects it all. Before you’re born, even after death. Everything that ever was or ever will be is the Force. There aren’t two things in the entire galaxy which aren’t connected, wherever they are or go." 

"How do you know?" 

"Sometimes it’s a feeling," said Qui-Gon. "Sometimes you just have to trust in it." 

Ben nodded and turned his gaze back to the night sky. "Father’s found my wife." 

"What?" Qui-Gon sat up, agape. "An arranged marriage? But you’re, like— _twelve_." 

Ben looked affronted, then chucked a clod of grass at him. "I’m sixteen, you nerf!" 

" _Still_ ," Qui-Gon insisted, flapping his shirt to get the dirt out. 

"We won’t be married for years, anyway," Ben muttered, then crumbled clumps of earth between his fingertips. 

"That doesn’t make it better." 

"Yes, well. I don’t have a say in the matter either way. It’s _duty_ ," Ben said crisply. " _We are cho_ —" 

"— _sen by that which is beyond us_ ," Qui-Gon finished, affecting Ben’s posh dialect. He nudged Ben’s shoulder with his own, then reconsidered and leaned fully against him. This always seemed to happen when they were together, inching closer and closer until some part of them finally touched—backs, knees, shoulders. Qui-Gon imagined they were drawn to one another in a summertime, double-planet orbit. "Have you ever considered that they’re just telling you that to justify keeping you caged up like some kind of exotic sonderbird?" 

"Don’t say that." 

"Why not? It’s true." 

Ben dug his bare toes into the thick grass, but not deep enough to uproot any of it. "I don’t think I could bear it, to think about my whole life that way," he admitted quietly. 

"I’m sorry," Qui-Gon mumbled. He flopped back and they lay in silence for another few minutes, listening to the frogs and crickets. He finally asked, "What if you don’t love her?" 

"I suppose I’ll have to learn. That’s what Mumma said about her and Father." 

"Are you worried she won’t love you? 'Course she will," Qui-Gon said, stretching his arms and legs out. "Everyone loves you. It’s impossible not to." He let his head roll to the side, towards Ben. 

Ben was frowning at him. 

"Don’t look at me like that," Qui-Gon said. He reached out and rubbed his index finger between Ben’s brows, chasing away the unhappy wrinkle there like he always did. "D’you think the Force helped find your wife? Is that why you’re asking?" 

The wrinkle came right back. "Qui—" 

"Hm?" 

"Do you love me?" 

"'Course I do," Qui-Gon answered easily. "You’re my best friend." 

"Would you kiss me?" 

Qui-Gon froze. He stared at Ben with wide eyes. "But you’re—" he fumbled for his words a moment and landed on the first thing that came to mind, "— _engaged_." 

Ben’s cheeks pinked. "I’ve been engaged since I was born," he said, growing a bit flustered and defensive in what he thought was rejection. "They just didn’t know to _whom_." He flopped back down into the grass and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Forget it." 

"No!" Qui-Gon cried and pitched up on his elbow. "No, just—I didn’t mean—look," he said firmly, "I’ll do it. I want to." 

Ben peered at Qui-Gon through his own fingers. "Are you sure?" 

"I’m sure." 

"You didn’t sound sure." 

Qui-Gon thought of Ben’s voice and crispy-sweet lace cookies, and wondered if Ben’s words would melt in his mouth the same way. He decided that he wanted to find out—very, very much. He raked his dark hair out of his face. "I’m sure!" he insisted. "Just. Hold still, yeah? You’re too short." 

"You’re too tall," Ben countered indignantly, glaring up at him. 

"Well, scoot up!" 

"You’re impossible," Ben sniffed, but obeyed anyway, shuffling up awkwardly in the soft grass. He wavered for a moment. "Should I—lie down?" 

"If you want, I guess?" Qui-Gon responded and leaned overtop Ben, then paused and asked, "Have you kissed anyone before?" 

"Who would I have kissed?" Ben countered, with the air of a weary old man. "I can’t even leave my house without a bloody armed patrol unit. This is all I get—" he waved his arms around Qui-Gon in an all-encompassing sort of gesture towards the river and forest, "You’re the only thing I truly have all to myself, and I want it to be _you_." 

Qui-Gon stared down, momentarily at a loss. 

"You’re thinking," said Ben archly. He snapped his arms back and crossed them over his chest. His embarrassed flush was visible even in the paltry moonlight. "Is thinking meant to be a big part of it?" 

Qui-Gon dropped his head to rest against Ben’s shoulder, pressing his face into his neck with a sigh. "It’s the only first kiss you get," he mumbled, "and I just want it to be good for you." 

Ben was quiet for a moment. "Of course it’ll be good," he said softly. "It’s with you." 

Qui-Gon had thought it might be a dramatic moment, to give Ben his first kiss. That he would grin and crack a joke, all suave about it, and he and Ben might have a laugh afterwards. 

It didn’t happen like that. Not at all. 

It took them both by surprise when Ben turned his head just a bit, and his mouth brushed the corner of Qui-Gon’s. Ben did it again, on purpose this time—just a tiny movement, back and forth, back and forth, almost nuzzling. 

On the fourth pass, Qui-Gon caught Ben’s lips with his own. It wasn’t really a kiss—just shy pressure. But then Qui-Gon opened his eyes and saw that Ben’s were closed, his lips still parted—he lifted himself up on his elbows and tangled his fingers into Ben’s hair, and he kissed Ben the way Ben deserved. _Properly_ , Ben would probably say. This moment had become about both of them now—what Qui-Gon wanted, not just Ben. And he _wanted_. 

It was clumsy and mostly noses at first. It took them a minute to find their rhythm with one another—but when they did. Well. 

Qui-Gon imagined it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted. 

It was sweet and easy, just the slow, tentative press of damp lips. Chaste compared to what Qui-Gon knew it could have been, and better than anything he’d ever imagined before. Ben made a soft noise in the back of his throat, hands fisted in Qui-Gon’s hair, bony knees digging into Qui-Gon’s sides. He looked lost for a moment when Qui-Gon finally pulled back with a thread of spit hanging between their lips. 

Qui-Gon had kissed others before—a schoolmate, his friend Tahl—gone farther, even, fumbling hands into clothing, clumsy and awkward and wonderful. None of it had ever been as extraordinary and right as this moment felt. But then, Qui-Gon supposed, he didn’t love anyone else the way he loved Ben. 

"Hello there," he said softly, smiling just a bit, hovering an inch above Ben’s face. 

Ben didn’t say anything, but his eyes were wide and luminous in the dark as he stared up. 

On impulse, Qui-Gon ducked his head and kissed the tiny mole on Ben’s right cheekbone. It was one of his favorite things about Ben, and it suddenly seemed the only proper way to acknowledge that—so he kissed it again, then one more time after that. 

"Oh," Ben uttered beneath him. He was the one person in the galaxy who could make one syllable sound so lonely and wondrous. " _Thank you_." 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon finally began to grow into his own height, to grow strong and broad beneath the weight of the flour sacks he carried now. _Just like your mum_ , people still told him. And anyone on their little moon who had ever carried the name Jinn, really—a dozen generations of towering, noble-boned people with bronze-dark hair and eyes as blue and changeable as the river water. 

The winter of Qui-Gon’s eighteenth birthday, it snowed for two months straight, all through the end of the season and into spring. When summer arrived, the trees remained barren and skeletal. Any chance of the annual amaranth bloom had been killed beneath deep, late frost. It was warm out now, but the forest path still squelched with mud around Qui-Gon’s bare feet as he wound his way down towards the river clearing. 

The speeders had begun to arrive that morning and, just as he always did, Qui-Gon found Ben at the river, crouched at the edge of the water. He looked noticeably bigger than he had last summer—had finally tripped gracelessly into his late and reluctant growth spurt, it seemed. There still wasn’t much height to him, but the baby-fat softness of his body had just begun to melt away. Qui-Gon could almost picture what he might look like as a man. He’d tried to picture it more often than not, recently, in ways that left him confused and aroused and lonely and in terrible need of a morning shower. 

Ben didn’t look up at Qui-Gon’s approach, only stared downward at the river. He had his right palm pressed to the rippling, glass-smooth surface of the water, skimming it slowly back and forth. "It didn’t bloom this year," he said without preamble. 

"Mum says that it only happens every few decades," Qui-Gon answered. 

Ben just nodded. He dipped his fingertips into the river, then held them up to watch the refraction of light hit the water in blue and orange and violet droplets. 

"Ben?" Qui-Gon asked quietly. "Are you okay?" 

Ben didn’t answer, didn’t look at Qui-Gon. He stood up and peeled off his sweater and undershirt, then kicked off his shoes. In one smooth motion he ran to the high edge of the bank and dove off into the deepest part of the water, so cleanly there was hardly a ripple in his wake. 

He stayed down for a long time. 

"Ben?" Qui-Gon called. He paced up the bank, following what had to be Ben’s shadow farther out in the water. He wasn’t coming up. _Why wasn’t he coming up?_

" _Ben!_ " 

Qui-Gon couldn’t wait any longer. With a growl, he leapt into the river with a great, crashing dive that sent the paddle-ducks flying. The water was bracingly cold but clear, and he swam hard against the drag of his own clothes in the hidden, deep current. His lungs were burning by the time he grabbed Ben by the ankle, tugging him forward with a disorienting explosion of air bubbles—he fumbled deeper and curled his hand around Ben’s arm then, dragging him up and up and up towards the sunlight flittering above. 

They surfaced with matching gasps for air. Ben looked a little dazed as Qui-Gon pulled him into the shallows. 

"What the hell were you doing?!" Qui-Gon shouted back over his shoulder. 

"I’m fine—I’m fine!" Ben coughed out between gasps and the great splashes of water in his face. He let himself be carried forward, still bobbing as Qui-Gon found his own footing. "I was just—I was—holding my breath—you can see the lights from under—" 

"And you couldn’t give me a warning?" cried Qui-Gon. He whirled around in the water to face Ben. "Stars, Ben, you about scared the life outta—" 

Ben threw himself at Qui-Gon, curling his fists into Qui-Gon’s soggy t-shirt, kissing him hard and messily. He hauled himself up and wrapped his legs around Qui-Gon’s waist, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his scruffy jaw the same way he’d surfaced for air—desperate and starving for it. "Please—please, Qui," he bit out, "You have to tell me you want this too—" 

Qui-Gon’s body moved before his mind caught up. He threw his arms around Ben, and they tumbled under the water together. 

"Water—up my nose—" Ben sputtered and coughed when they surfaced again, one hand still twisted into Qui-Gon’s shirt. 

It was hopelessly stretched by that point, so Qui-Gon yanked it off and chucked it blindly towards the bank behind them, where it landed with a wet plop. 

Ben snorted out a laugh at that. "I thought you liked that shirt." 

"What shirt?" Qui-Gon said blithely. He grinned and pulled Ben close again, bobbing backwards in the water as he dragged them closer to dry ground. "I’ve never owned a shirt in my whole life." He kissed away whatever retort Ben had ready, and Ben didn’t seem to mind letting Qui-Gon have the last word as they fell into a tangle on the bank, and lost all track of time until daylight began to fade. 

"I miss you so much—always," Ben mumbled, cheek pressed into Qui-Gon’s chest, the evening light heavy and warm on their bodies. "So much that it feels like it’s become its own person, sometimes. That missing you like that is the closest I can get to you, when I’m at home." He sighed and scratched his fingers through the sparse hair in the center of Qui-Gon’s chest. "I don’t think that makes sense…" 

"You’re here now," Qui-Gon said. Here, but not close enough. He threaded his fingers through Ben’s water-darkened hair and tightened his arm around Ben’s back. 

"I can see you, in our winter sky," Ben murmured. "It’s the only four months out of the year the Twelfth is visible." He sighed and nosed under Qui-Gon’s chin. "You’re a tiny, blue-green dot in my window every single night. I used to watch it until I fell asleep. Sometimes I still do." 

Qui-Gon wound their hands together and kissed Ben’s fingertips one by one. "I like that," he said. "Isn’t that what people do in the romance-holos? Stare at the night sky and think of one another?" 

The smile that blossomed over Ben’s face was rapturous. He looked every bit as besotted as Qui-Gon felt, as though every moment they spent together had snapped into its rightful place and purpose. As though this exact moment was the reason he’d stuffed his pockets full of stale bread and gone down to the river that day eight years ago. 

Qui-Gon wasn’t quite sure how to say all that, though, so he just turned his face into Ben’s hand and kissed his palm. Slowly, sweetly. 

Emboldened, Ben pushed the tips of his fingers into Qui-Gon’s mouth, and there wasn’t much talking after that. 

Really they didn’t speak much at all that summer, although their mouths never seemed to stop moving. Three blissful, hazy, halcyon months of exploring, fumbling hands and mouths and the thrill of discovering a new kind of happiness in each other. 

If Maran cottoned on to the change in the boys’ relationship, she gave no indication of it. As for Ben’s keepers, droid or otherwise, as long as the heir remained safe within the insular confines of River Village, they seemed to give him a wide berth. That was the whole point of these summer visits, Ben and Qui-Gon had figured out together, given the degree of scrutiny and supervision that fell upon Ben the minute he set foot on the transport back to Asmeru. 

"We’re leaving early tomorrow," Ben sighed into Qui-Gon’s ear on their last day together. They were tangled together at their spot on the riverbank, Ben’s face tucked up into the crook of Qui-Gon’s neck as he’d become accustomed to doing. "Mum says we have a reception tomorrow evening in the city." 

Qui-Gon curled his fingers through Ben’s sun-lightened hair. "For what?" 

"Dunno," Ben replied sleepily. "Probably for the Archon of Jouren? Father’s been trying to work out a trade deal with her for _ages_. It’s all he’s spoken of for months." He inched closer and tilted his head to the side, letting his freckled cheek rest against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. "He could have saved himself months if he’d just offered them grain subsidies from the start. Holding out as though Jouran’s lack of arable land were some great _secret_ …" Ben waggled his fingers in the air at that. 

"Hn," Qui-Gon grunted, and didn’t say anything else. 

"I thought perhaps I’d ask Mum if we couldn’t come two weeks earlier next summer," Ben said airily. "If I get my lessons done early, I think we could manage it." 

"I love you," Qui-Gon said at the afternoon sky. 

Ben nudged his head up a bit at that, his smile toothy and lopsided. "I love you too," he said. "I rather thought you knew that by now." 

"I’m _in_ love with you," Qui-Gon said, more strongly this time. "And I want to be with you—all the time, not just the summer." 

"Oh," Ben uttered. His smile faded. "That’s a terrible idea." 

"What—why?" 

"Do you want a list? I’m leaving tomorrow, for one." 

"…So what were you planning to do when we started all this?" Qui-Gon asked. He sat up on his elbow and Ben slid away from him. "Just keep going back to the big planet and see me three months a year until you get married?" 

Ben’s eyes were wide. "I—I don’t know—" he said, "I hadn’t thought about it—" 

"I haven’t _stopped_ thinking about it," Qui-Gon insisted. "Ben—you were the one that started this—every bit of it, right from the beginning—" 

"Would you rather I hadn’t?" Ben asked crisply, but there was a thread of something wary in the question. His fingers curled in the thick grass. 

Qui-Gon’s jaw tightened. "Let someone else do it." He knew it was a dumb argument the moment the words left his mouth, but was too stubborn and frustrated to take it back. He held his ground with a glare. 

"Do what?" Ben looked baffled for a moment, before understanding set in and his expression morphed into one of complete incredulity. "Be the Archo—is that what—" he stammered through his disbelief, "let someone else _be the Archon?_ " His elusive temper flared to life, scorching to the touch. "What the—what the _hell_ , Qui?" 

"You’ve said yourself that the Council makes most of the decisions," Qui-Gon said hotly. "That Archons are just turning into—into _figureheads_. Why the hell are you going through with it if that’s all you know you’ll be?" 

"Because that’s _not_ all it is! Not _yet_. I’m not ' _going through_ ' with anything—it’s not—this isn't a bloody _job_. It’s my whole life!" Ben cried, appalled. "My family!" 

Having Ben’s voice raised at him stung like nothing Qui-Gon’d ever felt before. His face burned and his throat felt tight and prickly. Anger looked awful on Ben and Qui-Gon hated it. He _hated_ it. "There’s nothing to stop you, you know," he said tightly. "You could be the one who changes things. People have done it before, on other planets—abdicated—" 

"Abdicate?" Ben scoffed. "Abdicate to _whom?_ You’re not listening to me—there is _no one_ bloody else!" He was getting to his feet now, red-faced, hands clenched into unsteady fists. "It’s just _me_. Do you think your paddle-ducks and teacakes would suffer for it if you just up and disappeared?" He waved his hand in a dismissive, agitated gesture. "You don’t—" Ben snapped his jaw shut, biting back his own words and breathing hard through his nose. 

"Don’t what? Say it," Qui-Gon challenged him, voice low. "Finish your damn sentence, Ben." 

Ben didn’t, and somehow that made it worse—all the horrible things he could have said left to sit in Qui-Gon’s mind. Ben’s jaw flexed and his nose twitched and he just muttered, "You’ve never even been off the bloody Twelfth." 

"So much for your fucking _serenity_." 

"Fine!" Ben shouted. "I’m scared out of my _mind!_ Every minute of the bloody day! And the only thing worse than imagining what will happen when I take over is what will happen if I _don’t_. Sometimes I hate every bloody moment of what I am! Is that what you want to hear?" 

"Of course not!" Qui-Gon yelled back. "I started all this because you shouldn’t have to feel that way about your own life! This is the only place you’ve ever seemed happy, and I want you to be happy! For kriff’s sake, Ben!" 

Ben looked ready to tear his own hair out. "It doesn’t _matter_ , what I feel!" 

Qui-Gon screwed his eyes shut and scrubbed his hands harshly over his face. "Look—just go home. Just forget I ever said anything," Qui-Gon knew it was a low blow when he added, "Your _Grace_." 

Ben blanched. Then his voice dropped low, and there was a thread of something unnerving in it. Unnerving and completely unfamiliar. "… _Don’t_ call me that." 

"Why?" Qui-Gon countered, reckless with hurt. "I have to, right? Everyone else does as soon as you crawl back out of here and go back to your real life. I’ll even kiss your hand before you go!" 

"Fuck you," Ben spat. He snatched up his sweater. " _Fuck_ you!" 

"No! You don’t get the last word just bec—" 

"—I’m leaving," Ben snapped. He turned and spread his arms wide, mocking. "That’s what you wanted. Congratulations, Qui. Go bask in it." He jerked the sweater on over his head and snatched up his abandoned sneakers. "You’ve got nothing else to do." 

Qui-Gon was speechless, slack-jawed as he watched Ben stomp away, barefoot, back up the path that would take him to the manor house. 

" _What the hell do you think all this was for me, Ben—?!_ " Qui-Gon yelled at Ben’s receding back, but got no response beyond his own angry echo. Then, " _You dropped your fucking shoe!_ " 

Nothing. 

Fine. _Fine_. 

Qui-Gon was _seething_ with humiliation and anger. Mostly humiliation, really, but it was the anger that carried him all the way back home, where he slammed his bedroom door so hard, Maran came all the way up from the shop just to yell at him for it. 

  


* * *

  


"Wake up, sprout." 

The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, and Maran was kneeling by his bed, shaking him by the shoulder. Her hands were covered in streaks of flour and she still wore her kitchen apron, as though she’d dropped everything just to come rouse him out of bed. "Wake up." 

"Mum," Qui-Gon whined and dragged a pillow over his face. "It’s too—" 

"Ben’s here," Maran interrupted him. "He’s waiting outside for you." 

Qui-Gon nudged the pillow back an inch and cracked open an eye. "Ou’side?" _'Why wouldn’t he just come in?’_ Qui-Gon wondered blearily, before the memory of yesterday’s fight set in. "Oh, _kriff_." 

"Qui-G—" 

Qui-Gon threw the covers back and nearly tripped as he rolled out of bed. He spared just enough time to pull on a lumpy, beige sweater over his pajamas, and didn’t even bother with shoes before he thundered down the creaking stairs three at a time. 

"Ben—?" Qui-Gon cried as he banged open the front door, Maran only a step or two behind. 

He stopped short. 

The morning air was still grey, foggy in the pre-dawn light. A sleek, luxury-model speeder was idling at the end of the front walk, and waiting next to it was the most beautiful woman Qui-Gon thought he’d ever seen. Not beautiful the way his mum was, but like one of her crystal vases stored away high in the locked curio cabinet. Qui-Gon had never met her before, hadn’t even seen her, but it was plain as day who she was. 

Lady Ysonna Kenobi was dressed plainly but elegantly, her glossy, copper-red hair wound into an intricate knot at the crown of her head. She looked thin almost to the point of frailty, standing with her hands clasped before her. The look she gave Qui-Gon was sharp and inscrutable, remarkable in its familiarity. 

When Ben slid out of the speeder behind his mother, Qui-Gon was struck by the sense of wrongness of him. It hit him so hard and quickly he couldn’t understand the feeling yet—just that twisting, gut-deep sensation of _wrong! wrong! wrong! All of it._

It was the way Ben stood. Two paces behind his mother, spine straight, hands folded at the small of his back, eyes downcast. Qui-Gon realized, then, that perhaps he wasn’t looking at Ben at all—but getting his first, real glimpse of _Obi-Wan_. It made his heart ache with strange loneliness. 

The world only righted itself the moment Ben’s mother touched his elbow in some sort of wordless communique, and Ben tumbled forward as if released from a spring-load. He stopped a pace away from Qui-Gon and looked almost afraid to come closer. 

Ben’s hesitation, the few inches and strange emptiness between them hurt more than any fight ever would. Qui-Gon reached forward and plucked at the collar of Ben’s blue sweater. There was still a pine-needle stuck to it, and he picked it off. "Hi," he said quietly, subdued. 

"Qui," Ben started, voice tight, "I’m sorry—about what I said—I didn’t mean—" he pitched forward and threw his arms around Qui-Gon, clutching tightly at the back of his sweater. "I’m so sorry," he said into Qui-Gon’s shoulder, voice thick with misery. "I didn’t mean any of it." 

Qui-Gon’s whole body practically melted with relief. He didn’t care that they were being watched when he wrapped Ben up in his arms, nearly lifting him off his feet. "It’s okay," he said, cheek smooshed against the top of Ben’s head. "I said awful things, too. It’s okay," he repeated. "We’re okay." 

Ben was on tip-toes now, holding on like Qui-Gon was the only thing left in the universe that kept gravity in check. "I’m in love with you too," he whispered in Qui-Gon’s ear. "I really am. I love you." 

How thin the line was between the pain of loss and the pain of sudden, implosive joy. Qui-Gon’s heart was too wild, too erratic for his own body in that moment. Ben was in love with him. Ben was in love with him. _Ben was in love with him_. It was everything he’d thought taken away doubled and given back. 

Qui-Gon clutched him even closer. "I was so afraid," he admitted in a whisper. He wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it didn’t really matter when Ben nodded against his chest and said, "Me too." 

"Ben," Lady Kenobi beckoned softly. 

Ben pulled him tighter, so tight it almost hurt. Not tight enough. "I love you," he repeated, desperately now, as many times as he could fit it into their last few seconds together. " _I love you I love you I love you I love you I lov_ —" 

"It’s time, darling." 

"I have to go," Ben said, voice unsteady. Then with renewed determination as he loosened his grip and drew back, "I don’t—I wouldn’t want anyone else to keep my life for me—I love you. I _love_ you, Qui." 

"I love you, too," was all Qui-Gon could say to that. He leaned down and kissed Ben’s lips, then he kissed Ben’s mole, and then he kissed the back of Ben’s right hand and held it against his mouth. "I’ll see you next summer." 

Ben’s face pulled into a look of painful, earnest hope. "You’ll wait for me?" 

"'Course I will," Qui-Gon said against Ben’s fingers. "I always will." And he let Ben go. 

"I’ll figure it out. I promise I’ll figure it out," Ben said. On impulse, Ben turned and threw his arms around Maran’s waist, burying his face into the crook of her neck. 

"Fly safe, dove," she said softly enough for only him and Qui-Gon to hear. She smoothed her rough palms over his hair and kissed the top of his head. 

Ben was scrubbing at his face when he pulled away from her. He didn’t look at anyone, least of all Qui-Gon, as he hurried down the walk and slipped back into the speeder, three gazes heavy on his back. 

Lady Kenobi unfolded her hands and made as if to follow her son into the transport, before she stilled and looked back at Qui-Gon and Maran. "I’m not—" She lifted her chin and drew up her posture, though she just seemed fragile and a bit defensive in her hauteur. "I do what I can for him." 

Maran sighed softly, but it was the sort of sound she made when she smiled. 

Lady Kenobi held Maran’s gaze for a moment longer, looking as though she wanted to say more; but then she just nodded and, with a parting glance at Qui-Gon, slipped into the speeder and let the door whisper shut behind her. 

Qui-Gon stood rooted to the spot and watched them pull away, the speeder leaving slow curls of morning fog in its wake. Some part of his heart remembered all those times he’d wondered if one could only truly know love by knowing the absence of love. He knew it now—he knew love because it was being taken away from him in a speeder with windows tinted so dark, he couldn’t even watch his love as it left. 

Qui-Gon’s expression broke and his eyes welled. "Mum—he—" He pressed his hands to his face, to keep the world out or his tears in, he wasn’t sure, but he failed either way. "Ben and I—" Qui-Gon towered over his mum now, but he’d never grow so much that he couldn’t fit in her arms anymore. He folded into them easily when she beckoned him close. " _Mum_ —" 

Maran pressed her cheek to Qui-Gon’s head. "I know, sweetheart," she soothed him. 

All through autumn Qui-Gon held onto his love and hope; even as winter came and went, as the manor house sat empty and dark throughout spring and into the early days of summer. Empty and dark for weeks, then months, and then years. 

The amaranth returned, but Ben never did.  
  
  



	3. A Man the Likes of Qui-Gon Jinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  click [me](https://youtu.be/xNN7iTA57jM), then click [me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kt7_sJwDSL8).  
> 

Lazy mornings were a rare luxury for Qui-Gon. It was a circumstance of his own making; he was self-employed, after all, but he still appreciated the periodic reprieve from his own 4 AM alarm. He only got one every few weeks when Tahl came in early to start up the ovens and the first batches of bread, and to let Qui-Gon sleep off his late night down at the pub with Mace and Plo. 

Qui-Gon slatted open a sleep-crusty eye. 

He still had his same old bed with its same wash-worn quilts, but the morning light was brighter in the bedroom that used to be his mum’s—the back wall was one great bank of windows that looked out onto the forest line behind the building. Nature slipped ever closer to him, though, thanks to the great, blooming pots of plants and flowers he’d moved in with himself, and the graceful tendrils of marbled ivy that had crept in through a crack in the window frame and made themselves comfortable along the ceiling. Greenery seemed to follow Qui-Gon Jinn around his own home like a faithful, beloved pet, and he cared for it in very much the same way. 

The wide, sun-bleached floorboards creaked as he finally rolled out of bed to meet his day: open the windows to the birds and the cold, early spring air; brush the stale fuzz of lager out of his mouth; a shower and quick trim when his beard just began to edge on the far side of unruly. He wound his hair into a long, dark plait down his back, dressed in simple brown leggings, worn leather boots, and a loose linen shirt that would diffuse the bellowing heat of the ovens. Made the bed, tidied up a bit, watered the plants. 

Qui-Gon found his comfort and peace in the routine of it all, the familiarity of the motions. 

"Morning, sweet-pea," he rumbled at the little cloud-fern on his windowsill. He gave it a glass of water, then refilled the cup for himself. "'Nother beautiful day, yeah?" He ruffled the plant’s leaves affectionately. "Thought so, too." 

Qui-Gon Jinn wasn’t a lonely man; he wasn’t hard to please. He’d seen enough of the galaxy to know by now that the life he’d made for himself was a simple thing, wholly unremarkable, and that he loved it fiercely and unashamedly, down to his very bones. 

No, he wasn’t lonely. Sometimes, though, a strange and wistful feeling would come over him—something so faint he couldn’t put a name to it, drifting at his heels, noticeable but unobtrusive. Sometimes when he felt it, without even realizing it, he would look up at the sky and remember a boy he’d loved, with solemn green eyes and freckles that blossomed only once a year beneath the Twelfth’s summer sun. 

Sometimes he would look up and wonder if the boy had ever really existed at all. 

  


* * *

  


A pot of sapir and a toasted sunberry brioche roll were waiting for Qui-Gon in the kitchen when he finally came downstairs. 

"Morning," he said, pecking Tahl on the cheek as he passed by way of thanks. He tore off half the buttery roll, holding it in his teeth as he pulled a fresh apron over his head. "Was expecting a quiet day," he said around his mouthful, then finished it off in another three bites and made for the tea. He tipped his head towards a flimsi-notepad sitting on the counter. "We got an order in?" 

"Commed in 'bout an hour ago," Tahl replied from the counter, sleeves rolled up high on her strong arms as she kneaded a pile of dough. "Don’t read that ’til you’ve used the 'fresher." 

"Good on me, then," Qui-Gon muttered into his tea. He almost choked it back up. 

Qui-Gon braced himself against the countertop, staring down at a little slip of paper covered in Tahl’s blocky print. "Twen— _twenty_ forest-honey cakes?" he sputtered, "One hundred spice pastries, twenty loaves of table bread, twenty-five loaves of sticky bread, assorted—" He held the paper closer to his face and he laughed his disbelief, "— _assorted fine pastries for approximately fifty guests with varieties selected at baker’s discretion_." His voice rose in pitch, eyebrows launching into his hairline. "By _tomorrow night?_ " he squawked. " _Who_ in their right crazy, _bleedin’_ mind wants—" 

"The Archon’s dead." 

Qui-Gon froze. He dropped his hand, expression slackening as he looked over at Tahl. "What? He— _when?_ " 

"Late last week, apparently," she answered. "They kept it under wraps until the headline came out this morning. 'Natural causes,' whatever that means. The family’s doing their weird, creepy ritual to hand over _sacred duty_ —" she waggled her buttery fingers in the air at that, "—to the next one, or somethin'. Blood sacrifices and spooky chanting and whatnot." 

"Why’d they come here for it?" Qui-Gon asked quietly. "They never have before." 

"Remembered we exist and come to visit their backwoods, black-nerf constituents out on the moon? Who knows?" Tahl shrugged and scooped the dough into a greased metal bowl. "Good business for us. The droid that commed in the order just said they changed venues at the last minute and didn’t care about the rush fee." Tahl wiped her hands off and whipped out a great sheet of cling-film with a flourish. "Rough-puff’s in the chiller; this is the starter for the sticky bread. It’s been—what?" she said without segue, "Ten years?" 

"Hm?" 

"Since the family even showed up here." 

Qui-Gon was silent, moving to gaze out the screened kitchen side-door. He bumped it open with his hip, arms crossed over his chest. Sure enough, a long line of speeders wound its way up the verdant hillside, headlamps eerie-white and diffuse in the morning fog. They were all indistinguishable from one another, luxe silver-grey models, windows tinted too darkly to see anything inside. 

Qui-Gon shook his head, feeling as though he were drifting miles away at sea. He looked down at the order in his hand again. "I don’t have enough in-store to make even half a’this…" he said faintly. 

Tahl gave him the side-eye. "I got Piell out of bed this morning for an emergency order. He said this one maxed out your tab now and you’re only gettin’ cement dust til you pay up," she said crisply, then ticked off her fingers, "Three bags of cheffa flour, more butter and dianoga cream, a big thing of the Scarif vanilla extract, dark-chocolate couverture, another jar of sugar pearls…" she continued on, running down a comprehensive list of both stock fare and speciality alike, "…and five pounds of sunberries for glaze-cakes." 

Qui-Gon chewed his lip thoughtfully, then said, "Muja." 

"It’s out of season for another two months," Tahl protested. "You’ll pay three times more for it—" 

"Muja," Qui-Gon repeated. "Non-negotiable." 

"Did you miss the part about maxing out your tab?" 

"Tahl." 

"Fine," she capitulated, annoyed. "I’ll call Piell back for everything he’s got. The town’s gonna be out for days." 

Qui-Gon shrugged. "It’s a special occasion, yeah? Tell him it’s for the Archon." He sighed, then, and gently let the screen door creak shut. "It was fifteen." 

Tahl glanced up from the smudged-up comm unit in her hand, Piell’s number half-dialed. "Fifteen what?" 

"Years ago," said Qui-Gon, tightening his apron and not meeting her eyes. "Last time the Kenobis were here." 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon had never been to the Archon’s manor before. 

It seemed absurd for all the years he’d lived a stone’s throw away from it. Ben had always been adamant, though, that every moment they had together be spent by the river, or in Qui-Gon’s room, or Maran’s kitchen, or really anywhere that wasn’t his own summer home, Qui-Gon supposed. Even when it was unoccupied, dark and quiet like some shadowy extension of the hilltop it sat upon, the ten-foot wall around the property was enough to dissuade any curious passerby. 

Qui-Gon hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours—partly to meet the rush-contract deadline, and partly because his restless mind wouldn’t let him; perhaps it was the exhaustion eating at him, but there was something unsettling about the place, he mused as he steered his sputtering cargo-speeder through the service gate. 

The manor rose four stories tall with fortified walls of ashlar stone and towering, mosaic-pane windows old enough to be constructed from real, variegated color-glass. It wasn’t exactly foreboding, but the building held a feeling as though it were a sentient thing, ancient and slumberous, which had no right to be disturbed by a man the likes of Qui-Gon Jinn. 

A line of bulky droids directed Qui-Gon down a one-way service road along the back of the property, guiding him into an unloading bay that was, thankfully, bustling with life and activity. A sleek, chrome protocol droid took Qui-Gon’s name and ran a full security scan on the speeder before it waved over a hover-cart to help him unload. 

There were a few faces already familiar to Qui-Gon: Dex, the village butcher who cooked every other night down at the pub, Jocasta from the flower shop, Kit ferrying in piles of laundered and pressed linens. They all nodded to one another and passed around their morning greetings, but disappeared soon enough beneath the focused bustle of preparation. 

Qui-Gon was grateful to have avoided small-talk. He wasn’t quite sure what sort of mood was dogging him—tension, anticipation, a strange disappointment that there was no sign of Ben—but of course there wasn’t. Why would there be? An Archon had no business in the service level, much less on the day of his own ascension… 

Gods, he felt like such a mess. 

"This will be your work area," the protocol droid said. It motioned to a spacious corner of the modernized, commercial-grade kitchen. "You may avail yourself of all service facilities on this level. You are not permitted on the higher floors." The droid passed Qui-Gon a flimsi-print security badge to clip to his shirt, and a bullet-point serving schedule for that evening. "You may comm me from the south-wing general unit, should you require anything else," it said with clear dismissal, and left him in order to go mollify a frazzled, young Twi’Lek covered up to his elbows in gold-dust. 

Qui-Gon hauled in the rest of his equipment and the tall rolling-racks of goods he and Tahl had finished beforehand: the pull-apart sticky-bread and dense forest-honey cakes, baked the afternoon before and gently tucked in for the night under a bath of warm vanilla-steeped syrup; plain, staple loaves of cracked wheat and thick-crusted white bread; puffy yeasted rolls alongside pats of fresh lemon compound butter; aromatic spice-buns enrobed in silky icing; savory herb and cheese crackers. 

These he left covered and set aside, knowing they would keep for the hours before foodservice was set to gear up. 

_Focus, focus_ —a mantra in the back of his mind—an ancient saying on the Twelfth— _your focus determines your reality_. 

Qui-Gon worked at a steady pace all through the morning and into the mid-afternoon, perfecting delicacies too intricate and temperamental to have been finished in advance: crackle-topped ginger cookies served with dollops of airy vanilla cream; bursting-ripe sunberries suspended in flutes of sparkling-clear champagne gelée; cloud-soft pastry creme infused with Asmeru’s native black tea, hand-piped into whorled pastry shells and drizzled in bergamot caramel; golden lace-cookies topped with spun-sugar webs, so crisp and delicate they had to be eaten within hours, before the moisture in the air softened them. 

Periodically snippets of conversation, from both sentient and droid-staff alike, reached his ears as the activity level around him steadily increased… 

_'The Archon—'_

_'His Grace is very particular about—'_

_'—you know how he is—'_

Qui-Gon didn’t, but he wondered so hard it _ached_. 

_Focus._

He cracked his knuckles, shook out his hands, thought of his mum, and settled into his own mind for his final and most laborious task. 

Qui-Gon had made the batches of sugar-paste that morning before the sun rose, flavored them with citrus extract, chosen and mixed the colors with thought and intent: jewel-tones of blue and purple, fiery-deep red and gold. The hues of a vivid, summer sunset, crafted into miniature amaranth blossoms, to be clustered atop delicate, mirror-glazed muja tea-cakes. 

For the last two hours of his prep time, he remained still but for the rhythmic movements of his hands; he lost himself to the rolling and cupping motions between his palm and fingertips as he softened and shaped bits of sugar-paste against the warmth of his own skin. 

Slowly, beautifully, a forest of eventide amaranth blossomed over the stainless steel worktop before him. Each cake held a single, perfect floret with its spiraling fractal of petals, arranged to create a gentle gradation of rich, saturated color joined occasionally by a burst of leaf-green. 

And at the end of it all, every memory of Ben, Qui-Gon had transmuted into exquisite flavor, texture, and aroma. Gently and almost reverently, he arranged the story of their childhood together along his clean worktop, each creation silently asking the same, hopeful question— _Do you remember when we…?_

And maybe, maybe Ben would taste Qui-Gon’s offerings and think of the boy he used to be. 

"Take a breather, yeah?" said a server-droid, the sympathy in its voice ringing surprisingly genuine. "You ain’t looked up once since you got here." 

Qui-Gon blinked out of a daze, then scrubbed at his face. The room around him had grown packed and bustling, the sky outside faded into evening indigo-blue. "Yeah, alright," he agreed wearily, and waved a hand at the array of his work. "Everything’s ready to go out when they need it. Rest is in the chiller unit." 

"Looks brilliant, mate." 

"Thanks." 

Qui-Gon tugged off his apron and had nothing to blame but his own nosey curiosity when he slipped off into a back stairwell, in direct violation of the protocol droid’s instruction. 

He followed his instincts, drawn through the manor house by a faint gust of green-fresh life within the silence and darkness. Up through a winding, narrow serving passage; a glass-domed solarium with fresco walls as lush as the garden they used to house, but inhabited now only by the painted sigil of House Kenobi—the scarlet-feathered tanager with its ebon-tipped wings; a cavernous great hall with soaring, hammer-beam rafters; a narrow portrait gallery memorializing thirty generations of Oban Province’s noble Archons; room after room of stone and marble and rich, deep carpets, irreplaceable heirlooms and artifacts. 

Qui-Gon lost himself in the quiet, desolate beauty of the manor. Even now, a grown man of thirty-three years, and the house whispered goosebumps down Qui-Gon’s back. 

It would have swallowed a little boy whole. 

The light grew warmer as he walked, flickering incandescent gold overtaking moonlight as Qui-Gon found himself standing in the arched doorway to a high, porticoed mezzanine. What had been a wash of white noise to him were voices now, still indistinguishable as they murmured in unison. He inched forward and, looking down upon the scene a half-floor below, knew he’d come upon something forbidden to him. 

The mezzanine crowned a circular, stone-lined room—an ancient, windowless sanctuary—lit by flame-burning, wrought-metal lanterns. The room was over-warm from the press of dozens of bodies crowded along the periphery of the space, the air heavy, dizzying, with the scent of spice-smoke and expensive perfume. 

It was the ancient ceremony, the ascension of the Archon himself, witnessed by the oldest bloodlines of Asmeru. And within it all, Qui-Gon saw a singular spot of deep, coppery red hair—the only hair like it in the room full of black and brunette. On Asmeru and all its moons, there was only one family with hair like that. 

Qui-Gon’s heart stumbled in his chest. His fingers tightened against the marble balustrade. 

It was Ben. It was _Ben_. _It had to be_. 

He was all but unrecognizable. Rendered nearly shapeless by layers of scarlet tunics, all weighted down beneath a dramatic capelet of interlocking, gem-studded rings, clasped high at his throat and looping over his shoulders and down his back. It clinked musically with every movement. No part of Ben was untouched, unmodified—even his skin glowed unnaturally in the lamplight under a layer of gold dust, his features obscured beneath ancient, ceremonial face-paint. When he walked, Qui-Gon saw that Ben’s feet were bare. 

Qui-Gon’s hope sputtered, weakened by sudden doubt in himself. 

Ben looked more precious metal than man, enrobed and transformed into a thing—an ideal, the ageless and ancient heartbeating-embodiment of _Peace, Knowledge, Serenity, Harmony_. 

Qui-Gon was not a small man; very few things made him _feel_ small—but the way Ben carried himself, as though he towered above the world through no effort of his own, could have sent Qui-Gon to his knees had he been faced with it directly. 

That’s exactly what his attendants did. One by one, they sank to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the cold, stone floor, fingers inching forward to touch the hem of their Archon’s heavy robes as he moved around the room. A breath passed before they lifted their faces, accepted his outstretched hand, ritualistically, pressed it to their foreheads, then their lips. Kissing the hand of their Archon. 

A second time around the circle and it was Ben who knelt this time, slipping to his knees, palms flat to the floor in a ripple of dark silk. His lips moved in a quiet, repetitive mantra, and he dipped his head in a gesture of respect to each person in turn—though he never touched it to the floor, nor touched anyone’s skin as had been done to him. 

Only when Ben reached those closest to Qui-Gon’s hidden perch—a solemn-faced council of elders in jarringly drab, brown robes—could Qui-Gon make out Ben’s words. His voice was resonant and crisp, not warm and honey-soft the way he remembered it. He sounded cold and impersonal, regal, bearing an accent far richer than all of Qui-Gon’s worldly possessions. 

The Archon sank to his knees a final time and bowed his head, impassive beneath the gaze of his onlookers. 

_"We are chosen by that which is beyond us_." 

The Twelfth had ancient stories of people who could touch the Force like a fifth element, move and be moved by it, and only in that moment did Qui-Gon finally believe the truth of them. The air in the room felt charged, _transformative_. Something pounded in Qui-Gon’s chest, like a deep, subsonic reverberation—ancient and powerful and near-sentient. A bolt of actual, honest-to-gods _fear_ crackled down his spine. 

Below, Ben’s brow furrowed for just a moment, his sharp gaze flickering around the periphery of the chamber. Limned in kohl and copper, the stark green of Ben’s eyes was visible, even from so far away. 

Qui-Gon sank further back into shadow, breath tight in his chest. He was unable to tear his own gaze away from Ben. _No_ , he thought suddenly, not Ben—from _Obi-Wan Kenobi, High Archon of Oban_. The entity that strange and lonely little boy became when Qui-Gon couldn’t see him. 

He’d been so wrong, all those years ago when he thought he could picture Ben as a grown man. 

He understood Ben now in a way he had never before. This— _this_ was what people feared about the child. They’d seen this creature, the one which had always hovered just over young Ben’s shoulder, waiting for the day they would grow into one another. Qui-Gon realized his mistake in that moment. He realized, for the first time in his life, just how far out of his depth he’d been from the very moment he ever met Ben Kenobi. 

Qui-Gon’s boots were worn nearly through, his clothing old and wrinkled from the heat of the kitchen, the cracked valleys of his overlarge hands still caked in flour and sticky with jam and sugar. He pressed his back to the wall, felt the roughness of his own homespun, linen tunic, and felt suddenly like an unwelcome intruder in—a corruption _of_ —that ancient, sacrosanct place. 

Then again, he was. 

Qui-Gon dropped his head, tried to ground himself against the shadowy, stone-cold strength of the wall, too wary to utter anything aloud. _Get a grip on yourself, man_. 

The air had grown discomfiting, the heat and smells and very feeling of the place thickening, becoming stifling—as if to push him away and out, out, _out_. Throat tight, palms damp, Qui-Gon turned and fled with single-minded speed back to the service level. 

All-in-all, he’d only been gone for twenty-seven minutes. Only twenty-seven minutes, and he’d been put back in his rightful place in the world, feeling so much more the fool for ever having imagined himself above it. 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon shoved the hatch of his speeder shut. Something—a stack of baking trays, probably—crashed inside, but he wasn’t overly inclined to care. It was late, nearly midnight, and he just wanted to leave—to get away from the manor house and everything inside of and even to _do_ with it—and crawl into bed to sleep off his half-addled exhaustion and wounded pride. 

The gravel crunched behind him, rock against clipped, chrome-plated footsteps. 

"Mister Jinn." 

Qui-Gon glanced over his shoulder. The same protocol droid who had greeted him stood there, observing Qui-Gon with pre-programmed patience and poise. It held a thin strip of clear flimsi-print. "Your payment." With a gracious dip of its head, the droid coolly passed him a credit transfer receipt four times higher than his original rush-contract price. 

Qui-Gon’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "There’s been a mistake—" 

"There has been no mistake," the droid said crisply. "We thank you for your timely service. Good evening." 

Qui-Gon slumped against the side of the speeder, beginning to feel overwhelmed. The air around him was chilly, the service lot empty of people and dark but for the filtered light from the manor house and Asmeru’s muted, golden hue in the sky. He breathed in deeply, let himself settle into the quietude of the moment, to borrow a sliver of peace that was sorely needed. The night-peepers were just waking up for the season and, if he strained enough, Qui-Gon imagined he might be able to hear the rush of the river’s higher reaches nearby. 

High above him on the manor’s second floor, warm lamplight and orchestral music spilled out from the great hall, its towering double-doors onto the terrace thrown wide open to greet the night. The catering staff flitted about like flicker-flies, trays balanced on their arms laden with exquisite desserts and pastries, passing them out to the guests who neither knew nor cared who made them. It seemed to be a lively affair, with no trace of the ritual and solemnity Qui-Gon never should have witnessed in the first place. A celebration for the new Archon. 

"Long may he serve," Qui-Gon mumbled half-heartedly, and stuffed the receipt into his jacket pocket. He’d quit smoking seven years ago when he moved back to the Twelfth, but he could still appreciate the sort of moment that warranted a cig. 

A faint dissonance joined the distant music, only just hovering at the edge of Qui-Gon’s awareness. It rang strangely in his ear, impossible to ignore the moment he really noticed it. Metallic, delicate, arrhythmic—and getting closer. The muffled clink of metal-on-metal, familiar in a way that only hit home to Qui-Gon a moment before the sound was joined by shape. 

At the far end of the gravel lot, just on the edge of the barren chime-tree orchard, a lone _shadowed-but-unmistakable_ figure drifted away from the house and deeper towards the rear garden. Still dressed in his ceremonial garb, ropes of gold-links clinking with each step he took—Ben’s movements seemed hesitant, directionless. He reached out with one hand to brace himself against the closest tree trunk. 

Qui-Gon frowned and pushed himself away from the speeder and took a few hesitant steps. Even from such a distance, he was struck by the _wrongness_ of it. 

Things happened quickly after that. 

Ben sank down onto his knees in the damp grass, collapsing beneath the weight of his own regalia. Nearly curled double, he was clawing at the back of his neck and shoulders—fingers tearing through the strands of gold, breaking the links and tearing off pearls and gemstones as he tried to get it away from his body. 

Qui-Gon never questioned himself. He rushed forward, boots thudding heavy first on gravel, then thick grass as he closed the space between them. He sank to his knees at Ben’s side, moving on instinct. 

Ben’s awareness seemed alarmingly minimal. He was sobbing for air, bracing himself upright on one hand as he pulled at the metal fastenings around his throat. "I can’t breathe—" he croaked, "I can’t bre— _please_ —" 

"Let me," Qui-Gon said firmly, grounding Ben with a palm between his shoulder blades. He closed his other hand around Ben’s wrist, stilling his frenzied movements. "Slow, deep breaths for me, yeah? Shh, now," Qui-Gon soothed him, voice pitched into a calming rumble. "I’ve got you. You’re alright." He moved his free hand up, working the line of metal fastenings over the back of Ben’s neck until the whole, heavy piece of jewelry came loose and slumped off Ben’s body. 

Ben made a terrible, pathetic noise of relief and sagged forward, fists curling into the grass so tightly, his skin went white and bloodless. 

Qui-Gon rubbed the heel of his hand firmly against Ben’s back, up and down the length of his spine. "I’ve got you, Ben." 

Ben’s whole body went still the moment that name left Qui-Gon’s mouth. 

Ben lifted his head, slowly; he seemed to waver, and then turned to look at Qui-Gon. Chest still heaving, he stared with pin-pricked, over-bright eyes that seemed blank and eerie-green in the moons’ half-light. They widened after a moment, gaze flittering over Qui-Gon’s face. 

This close, even behind the paint, Ben looked every bit like one of those startled firebirds in Qui-Gon’s garden. He just looked young and overwhelmed, and nothing more in that moment. 

Qui-Gon’s heart broke a little bit at the sight of it. "Ben," he repeated gently, a greeting and reassurance at once. Just for a moment, Qui-Gon saw the other’s lips part, his eyes begin to soften. 

" _Sir!_ " 

Two sets of hands seized Qui-Gon by the arms, hauling him off-balance and dragging him away from Ben. "Wait—!" he cried out, and grunted in pain as he was slammed face-down on the ground, hands restrained at his sides. 

A crowd had begun to gather along the edge of the portico above them; Qui-Gon could hear their gasps and murmurs as the guard shoved a knee into his lower back, pinning him down. Qui-Gon thrashed against the weight, spitting grass out of his mouth. 

"Sir!" One of them barked down at him, "If you continue resisti—" 

" _Stop_." 

The Archon’s voice cracked like ice. 

The world stilled. Held its breath. Even the onlookers from the manor house were silenced. 

When Ben spoke again his voice was quiet and even, but with a whisper of something darker and cautionary that made everyone around him tense up. "This man was assisting his Archon as best he knew," he said evenly. "He is to be released at once." 

The pressure on Qui-Gon’s back vanished. He was hauled to his feet, stumbling a bit as he was spun to face forward again. 

Ben had righted himself, standing tall and straight-backed and limned in the light of the manor house. His expression was cool, neutral, and he took his time to carefully smooth out the lines of his robes, brush the grass off, straighten out his collar and heavy sleeves. Satisfied, he finally, impassively lifted his eyes, though didn’t quite meet Qui-Gon’s gaze, focused instead somewhere on his right cheek. 

He proffered his hand. "Please accept our gratitude." 

Silence. 

"I—" Qui-Gon stared, uncomprehending. One of the guards nudged at his shoulder. 

He reacted on instinct, bowing low as he reached forward. He felt half-numb as he took Ben’s outstretched hand. The tips of Ben’s fingers had been dipped in coppery-gold lacquer down to the second knuckle, and they felt cold and alien-smooth against Qui-Gon’s callused skin. He pressed the backs of those long fingers to his forehead, then his lips, then, after a moment of hesitation, hidden by the fall of his own hair, squeezed them gently. A silent question as he kissed Ben’s hand— _I see you. I see you. Do you see me? I’ve kissed this hand before. Have you forgotten it all?_

Ben drew away. 

It left Qui-Gon staring at the dirt. 

"You may go." 

A chill settled in Qui-Gon’s chest. "Yes," he said as he backed up a pace, then two, his voice and gaze deferentially lowered, "Your Grace." 

He didn’t look back as he left. 

  


* * *

  


A heavy fog followed Qui-Gon home and well into the next day. When he trudged down the stairs at nearly half past ten the next morning, the kitchen was as bare and cold as he’d ever seen it. Perhaps even more so without the welcoming, yeasty smell of proofing bread dough and happy chatter of customers that normally filled it. 

Qui-Gon made himself tea and scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast, and ate standing at the kitchen sink. He cleaned his dishes. Then he cleaned the sink. Then, at a loss, he cleaned the entire kitchen and pantry from top to bottom. Showered again. Tidied his bedroom. Watered the plants. Made more tea. 

Maran’s shop was never meant to be quiet like this. The place would have been closed anyway that day, but he’d made up some excuse about _re-stocking_ and slapped a hand-written sign on the door that said the shop would be closed for the next three. He wasn’t worried about the loss of revenue. The sheer amount of money forked over by their new Archon—or at least their Archon’s business manager—would have kept the place afloat for weeks. Not to mention paid his tab with Piell clean off. 

Qui-Gon was embarrassed to think about how much he had needed it. 

He padded out front on socked feet and considered the idea that he’d made everything worse for himself, being alone like he was. He felt mired in a sense of _loss_ , an emotional echo of mourning someone or something gone. He could have called Tahl or Mace or Plo—hell, he could have gone for a bloody _walk_. 

Qui-Gon didn’t. He had spent years quietly nursing his gentle grief for Ben’s unexplained disappearance. He could afford to give Ben one more day of it—the memory of their friendship deserved that much, at least. 

He stood at the front shop window, warm mug cradled into the hollow of his chest, and watched as those luxury speeders hummed their way down the hillside, following the single road that would take them to the regional port seven klicks north of River Village. Qui-Gon supposed Ben might be in one of them, not that he could see inside. 

When the last speeder disappeared around the corner, Qui-Gon figured it was as good a sign as any to get on with his own life. 

"Gave them everything short of the curtains," Qui-Gon told the closest pothos plant. "Just as well," he added half-heartedly, "Bit of a new start, yeah? Rest of my life and all that." He wasn’t sure the houseplant found that entirely convincing, but he supposed it didn’t matter. 

He went to go put on his apron. 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon spent the rest of the afternoon working in a focused silence. There was a sort of serenity in it—a comforting meditation of repetition, precision, expression, creation. Qui-Gon let his mind go quiet, settled back into his own head as he did inventory, made up a list for Piell, then—with the scraps left over in his pantry—began the overnight proof for his own stash of orange-cardamom rolls. They were a weekly tradition, but never quite as good as Maran’s, even for all the years he’d been making them on his own. 

He was wrist-deep in puffy, white dough when the shop’s front door chime sounded out like glassy raindrops. 

"Nothin’ in today!" Qui-Gon called out from the kitchen. He pulled cling-film over the bowl, dusted flour off his hands and onto his linen apron as he came out front. "Sign’s on the front door, my frie… oh." 

"Hello there," said the man in his doorway. 

Qui-Gon was momentarily stunned at the rush of familiarity. 

He knew it was Ben, knew it down to his soul in a way time couldn’t touch. Taller, granted, but with a build that still hovered a breath too close to thin. Those strange, green eyes, the mole on his right cheekbone, his hair—oh, but his _hair_ , the only one in the galaxy with that color, burnished copper-red like the inside of his hammered cooking-pots, bright against the understated blues of his clothing. 

Ben’s own gaze flickered over Qui-Gon, inscrutable. He rocked up on the balls of his feet once, a strange ghost of a smile on his face. "You’re not wearing shoes." 

Qui-Gon stared. 

Ben cocked his head to the side, just slightly. "Do you still not wear shoes?" 

Qui-Gon was at a loss—he wanted to laugh, to seize Ben by the shoulders and shake him, to shake himself for reassurance this wasn’t some dream or half-formed memory, to touch Ben, just _touch_ him. 

He just stared. 

The attempt at humor died quietly on the floor between them, smothered to death by the silence. 

Ben’s smile faded. His demeanor seemed to dim a little bit, then, shuttered off. "I came to apologize," he explained to the vicinity of Qui-Gon’s right shoulder, "For yesterday. That and to—to see you again. I was rather worried you might turn me away, after—" his expression turned a bit tired, "—well. You know." Quieter, then, Ben finally met Qui-Gon’s eyes. "I’m so sorry, Qui. It’s—" he swallowed, "I should have been better than that." 

It was such a strange thing, to hear his name in that familiar-unfamiliar voice. When Qui-Gon finally found his own, it sounded distant even to himself. "I… thought you’d forgotten about me." 

Ben’s brow furrowed, almost confused. "No," he said quietly. "I could never." 

They stared at one another, neither speaking this time. When it lasted just a moment too long, Ben broke first and turned his gaze down, unsure how to interpret Qui-Gon’s silence. He shifted and the floorboard squeaked beneath his foot. "I do hope this isn’t an inconvenience for you, showing up like this," he said, ever polite. "If you would prefer that I left—" 

The sudden idea of Ben leaving for a second time was enough to jar Qui-Gon into action. "'— _Course_ not. Stars, no," he blurted and shook his head emphatically, almost as if to wake himself up. "No. Just—be at home," he said with a jerky, awkward sort of motion towards the closest table. "Can I—you’ve eaten?" he asked, then clarified unnecessarily, "Dinner?" 

Ben’s shoulders relaxed a bit. "I have." 

"Good. Just—I’ll just be a minute, yeah?" 

"Of course," Ben said graciously. 

Neither moved. 

"Right," Qui-Gon muttered, and abruptly turned for the kitchen. Without the weight of Ben’s gaze, he paused for a breath, bracing himself against the counter, eyes squeezed shut. It was strange, he thought, how quickly the pain of loss could turn to the pain of relief and hope, and how similar it all felt knotting in the center of his chest. "You great, bloody moron," he muttered and palmed at his face. 

Softly, from the doorway, "Oh, _Qui_." Just a second later, and Ben’s touch was hesitant against Qui-Gon’s forearm, resting but not gripping. "It’s not so bad as that, is it?" he asked, voice pained and earnest. "Was I so awful?" 

Qui-Gon thought that was possibly the most _Ben_ thing Ben could ever say. He let out a heavy breath nearly a decade and a half old, almost a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so wounded. "Stars, Ben," he ground out and lifted his head to look at the man next to him. "I’ve been waitin’ fifteen years for this, and I don’t even know what to do. Making a right fool out of myself, aren’t I?" 

Ben’s whole expression melted in relief, so familiar it made Qui-Gon’s heart twist inside his chest. "Nonsense," Ben said crisply, and just like that, as it had the very first day they’d ever met, the distance between them vanished. 

Ben tightened his grip on Qui-Gon’s arm and used it to turn him. Then he wound his arms around Qui-Gon’s middle, dropped his forehead to rest against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, hands fisted into the linen shirt at the small of his back. "I didn’t mean to take so long, Qui," he said. "I promise I didn’t." 

Qui-Gon pulled Ben in tightly, heart aching with relief and warm, slowly expanding joy. "Is it even legal to hug an Archon?" he mumbled into Ben’s hair—stars, it still _smelled_ the same, like expensive bergamot soap—and marveled how they still fit together like this fifteen years later. "Is there an application I need to fill out? A security check?" 

Ben chuckled, his breath warm against Qui-Gon’s throat. "Mandatory fourteen-day waiting period," he mumbled, "but I won’t tell anyone if you won’t." 

Qui-Gon’s laugh was genuine, and it broke the rest of whatever distance still lingered between them. When they finally loosened their grips to draw back, Qui-Gon rested his hands on Ben’s shoulders without an ounce of hesitation. "Let me look at you," he said warmly. " _Oof_ , you’re a handsome thing now, aren’t you?" 

Ben reached up and tugged at Qui-Gon’s long hair, braided loosely and slung over his shoulder. "And you look like some great, wild forest creature." He smiled a bit crookedly and added, "It rather suits you." 

Qui-Gon couldn’t resist his boyish teasing, drawing himself up to his full six-and-a-half feet to exaggerate the staggering height difference between them now. "I reckon you’d still fit in one of mum’s teaspoons, though." 

Ben’s ears pinked. "Lest I harbor any notion that your sense of humor aged as well as you have," he said tartly. "You could at least afford me a _table_ spoon." 

Qui-Gon threw his head back with a deep bark of laughter. His hand slipped up from Ben’s shoulder, curling around the man’s clean-shaven jaw. "There he is, my Ben," Qui-Gon murmured with decades-old fondness, gazing downward with soft eyes. 

It seemed neither of them knew what to say for a moment. 

Qui-Gon dropped his hand and squeezed Ben’s shoulder briefly, and then let go. "I’ll make tea, yeah? I—" he wavered and glanced at Ben, "unless this was meant to be a quick visit?" 

"I had rather hoped not." 

"Good." Qui-Gon pulled out one of the old kitchen chairs for Ben and waved at him to sit, then went to gather the accouterment of a welcoming host: his finest tea, a few leftover crackle-topped spice cookies, a pot of clotted cream and honey. 

Ben eyed the growing arrangement on the table with delight and amusement. "Already feeding me up with biscuits," he remarked. "You’ve grown up to become your mother." 

Qui-Gon laughed again, pleased at the notion. He passed Ben a little plate with two cookies on it, dolloped with the cream and honey. "I couldn’t ask for much better than that in life, could I?" he said, then sobered a bit, and slipped into the chair across from Ben. "I’m sorry about your da." 

"It’s alright," Ben said. "It wasn’t unexpected. We had time to adjust to the notion of his passing." 

"How you doing with it all?" 

Ben just sipped his tea in lieu of answering. "I almost didn’t come here today, you know," he admitted after a moment of thoughtful silence. "Moving the ceremony to the Twelfth I could pass off well enough as grief, but coming here—actually finding you again—" he trailed off and just made an indistinguishable noise into his cup. 

Qui-Gon didn’t press. Instead, he opted for gentle humor. "So instead you’d pay me an emperor’s ransom for tea cakes, and flee back to the big planet on the first transport out?" he asked, tempering his words with a fond smile. 

"Something like that." 

"What turned your mind?" 

Ben hummed and stared down at his plate, breaking a ginger cookie in half and dragging it through a dollop of sweet cream. "I ate a tea cake," he said simply. "And I found that my life all became rather overwhelming, rather suddenly, as a result of it." He bit down into the biscuit, chewed for a moment, and then smiled, thin-lipped. "Thought a breath of fresh air out in the back garden might have helped clear my head." 

Qui-Gon dropped his hand on Ben’s arm in a comforting gesture, then slid his palm down the length of Ben’s sleeve, coming to rest against the top of his hand where there was no fabric to separate the touch of their skin. His thumb brushed against Ben’s wedding band. 

Ben turned his hand up and squeezed Qui-Gon’s, then drew back. "It’s all fine now, truly," he said reassuringly, then, steering their conversation towards lighter waters, "Tell me of your life?" 

So Qui-Gon did. With humor and only a little embarrassment, Qui-Gon recounted his few experimental terms at university before dropping out; four wild years as a whitewater river guide—call-name _Treebeard_ —for adventure-seeking tourists on Alderaan; a stint as a hitch-hiking, backpacking, planet-hopping-handyman throughout the Outer Core and Edvary Sector. 

"Mum never seemed to mind my nomadic lifestyle," Qui-Gon said, then affected her stronger, lilting accent, "' _As long as you’re happy and a good man, sprout. That’s all I expect you to be._ '" 

"That does sound like her, doesn’t it?" Ben said fondly. "I suppose there’s nothing ever quite so comfortable as your own pillow. I should imagine you’d be hard-pressed to find a better place for it than here." 

"Truer words," Qui-Gon murmured, his heart warmed with memories. 

_'How long are you home for this time, sprout?'_

_'For good, I would reckon.'_ Then Qui-Gon had kissed his mum on the cheek, dropped his pack in the laundry room to deal with later, and gone back to the kitchen to shake out his apron. He’d done the same nearly every day since. 

Qui-Gon dunked the corner of a spice cookie into his tea, which garnered an amused look from Ben. 

"So uncivilized," Ben chided, teasing, but only a moment later he dipped his fingertip into his own sweet, milky tea. "Though a bit more elegant than the first time we sat here and ate biscuits together, isn’t it?" 

"I figured you’ve refined your tastes since then." 

"I haven’t," Ben said, half-glancing up. "Not a bit." 

"If I’d known we were serving the future High Archon of Oban, I’d have insisted on something nicer than blue milk at the time." 

"No, it was perfect," Ben admitted quietly. "It always was. I’ve—missed it quite terribly. This place. The Twelfth was the first place that truly felt like a home to me. I’d have given everything I had to live here when I was a child." 

"I cried into my poor mum’s shirt the minute your speeder was out of sight; you’d have thought I’d left my whole heart splattered on the ground," Qui-Gon admitted in turn. He cocked his head, voice softening. "Ben—why’d you never come back?" 

Ben shook his head with a sigh. "I was never allowed. Father decided it was time to give up matters of my childhood, this place chief among them." He smiled thinly, gaze distant and cast downward. "And the Archon’s will is to be obeyed until the very moment he draws his last breath." 

"Ben—" 

"—And I was married two weeks after that day." 

Qui-Gon was quiet, old sadness and sympathy tugging at his heart. "Did you know it’d happen so fast?" 

"No," Ben admitted, fidgeting with his teacup. "I’d known it was on the horizon, with my age. I’d hoped for another year or two, but…" he drifted off, lost in his own head, years in the past. "I begged my parents for months to bring me back here, you know. Father doubled grounds security when the guards caught me trying to sneak off-planet one night. I was a proper mess. It was my only saving grace that Satine was my co-conspirator in it all." 

"Your wife," Qui-Gon observed, gazing down at Ben’s wedding ring again. There was such warmth in the way Ben spoke about her, Qui-Gon wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or envy. 

Ben made a soft noise of agreement. "She is—remarkable. Sharp as a knife and twice as unyielding in her principles. Always has been," he said. Ben was smiling a bit, and there was something sweet and wistful in his expression. "It’s a wonder she kept the arrangement at all. The first ten months of our acquaintance I was in a remarkable state of despair over a great, singular love lost." 

Qui-Gon didn’t know what to say about such a terrible memory and the revelation of the depth of Ben’s feelings for him, back then. He reached across the table and rested his hand on Ben’s forearm again, opting to say nothing at all. 

"Oh, it’s alright. My father did what he thought was best for me, and the same that was done for him. That’s all. Besides," Ben demurred, and his expression turned wry, "It was a good match, Satine and I. Ideal, perhaps, had we not bonded over our mutual fondness for strapping big men." 

Qui-Gon snorted. "Rules me out, then. I was just a beanpole with ears last you saw!" 

"Yes, well, I’m here looking at you now, aren’t I?" Ben said tartly, even though he didn’t quite meet Qui-Gon’s eyes as he did. "Anyway," he added hastily, ears pink, "I’m glad to see the shop is still here. And thriving." 

Qui-Gon didn’t comment on the sudden topic change, though the idea of meeting Ben’s approval made him feel warm and self-conscious in a way he wasn’t used to. "'Bout the same," he said with an easy shrug. "Same shop, same customers, same passersby through the village. The baker’s just a little bigger, a little greyer." He winked at Ben. "Not as young as I used to be, yeah?" 

"You’re only thirty-three, you nerf!" 

"And you at thirty-two, ruling a whole damn province and moon." Qui-Gon chuckled. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs as he reminisced. "You were so frightened by it, when we were small." 

"When we were small?" Ben echoed, giving Qui-Gon an incredulous look. "Have you forgotten yesterday evening already? I’m off to a right poor start." 

"You were handed the weight of the world, and you stumbled," Qui-Gon said kindly. "Give yourself more than one day to find your footing. Besides," he added, purposefully light this time, "I’ve a sneaking suspicion you’ve grown into a remarkable man, Ben Kenobi. I think that, given enough time, you might begin to think so, too." 

Ben snorted, though he was fighting a smile. "In-born privilege and circumstance aren’t so remarkable." 

"Must just be you, then." 

Ben finally broke and his laughter was bright as he shoved at Qui-Gon’s arm, rattling the plates on the table. "Listen to you! A bloody Casanova in an apron!" His smile softened as he met Qui-Gon’s eyes. "Bet you’ve got the whole village wrapped 'round your little finger now." 

"I didn’t before?" 

"Oh, hush. Take your bloody compliment." 

"Eh, don’t listen to a word anyone 'round here says," Qui-Gon grumbled and waved a dismissive hand. "Especially Yaddle. She’s been sour that I can’t make her eggy-bread good as mum ever did." 

"Good gods _above_." Ben pitched forward in his chair, disbelief clear on his face. " _Yaddle’s_ still alive?" 

"'Course she is," Qui-Gon said with a snort. "She’d outlive the bloody sun just to spite it." 

"Huh." Ben sat back with a huff and seemed to mull that over. "You know, I rather think she would." When he glanced up again, he had a faintly concerned expression. "Maran—?" 

"Mum married four years ago," Qui-Gon answered, "to a steelsmith out on the coast." 

"She’s happy?" 

"She is," Qui-Gon said warmly. "Very much so. Ari’s a good man, and she only cooks for her own pleasure now." 

Ben’s gaze flickered to Qui-Gon’s hand. "You’ve not married?" 

"Lovers," Qui-Gon said, allowing himself a sheepish grin. "A few here and there." 

More than a few. There were any number of visitors to Qui-Gon’s little village who appreciated his deep voice for more than it could sell and his broad, rough hands for more than they could bake. But he wasn’t sure he wanted Ben to know that. 

"I was rather lucky, in a way," Ben said. "Satine and I love each other dearly, though not in the way we were meant to." He smiled, a bit wry. "We maintain a discreet arrangement within our marriage. She’s not lacking for, ah—" he scratched his thumbnail back and forth over his plain wedding ring, "—company." 

"And where does that leave you?" 

Ben just shrugged. "Things are different for me," he demurred, and made a dismissive motion with his fingers as if the topic might have bored Qui-Gon. 

Although it wouldn’t. 

It really, really wouldn’t. 

  


* * *

  


They talked until night overtook River Village. It was as comfortable and comforting as it had ever been between them. Sometimes there was silence, easy and thoughtful, and periodically their gazes, understanding, would catch as each man settled into what it meant to be in the other’s presence again. 

It was too early in the season to throw open all the shutters to greet the nighttime like Maran used to, not without the lingering heat of the ovens to insulate them; Qui-Gon compromised with one opened window and building up a little fire in the old stone hearth to ward off the chill. 

Together with an unlabeled bottle of spirits that joined them at the table. 

"You’re trying to get me drunk," Ben declared smartly, staring at his cup. He tapped at the game board on the table between them. "That’s cheating if you do." 

Qui-Gon splashed another healthy glug of liquor into Ben’s tea. It was their second round of boozy tarine and third round of novacrown. "Am not." 

"Just look at you. You’ve drowned all my lovely tea in straight grain alcohol." 

"Another win for the village baker," Qui-Gon snorted. "And it’s apple brandy, you snobby nerf." 

Ben was unbowed. "Nerfs have no concept of the social imbalances created by uneven distribution of wealth and resources," he said. "They’re egalitarian creatures. A classless society. They _can’t_ be snobby." He sipped at his drink with one hand and tidied his blue pieces with the other. "Your argument is invalid, and therefore I am not insulted. Try again." 

"I am not going to sit here and think up creative ways to insult you. Besides, I’m just pouring it into the cup," Qui-Gon argued reasonably, doing the very same to his own tea. "You’re the one pouring it into your mouth." 

"Well, I’m still not drunk," Ben sniffed. He moved a piece three slots to the left. "And I win." 

"Good on both accounts." Qui-Gon grinned, without a care for the game. "This would be a sorry thing to forget tomorrow, wouldn’t it?" 

"It would at that. I’d rather you— _wait_ —" Ben squinted over the rim of his cup. "Did you _let_ me win?" 

"Drink your tea," said Qui-Gon, his tone withering but his eyes bright. He got up to put the brandy back in its cabinet and paused along the way to scatter all the tiles on the novacrown board. "You don’t have a scrap of evidence," he added over his shoulder. 

Ben just laughed. His gaze followed Qui-Gon, then lighted on the rows of antique, clear-glass jars that lined kitchen shelves and fireplace mantel. 

Any available space was filled to the brim: colorful spices, polished and variegated river stones that spoke to Qui-Gon in a way only he seemed to hear, thriving moss-terrariums, dried field violets too lovely to bake—anything that caught Qui-Gon’s eye, really. Anything that could make the kitchen feel his as much as Maran’s. 

"Have you taken proper care of it, then?" Ben asked, "My life?" 

Qui-Gon smiled at the old joke, warmth and affection blossoming in his chest that Ben had even remembered it at all. He dropped back into his chair, loose-limbed and at ease. "I have at that. Every waking day of my own," he said with a low chuckle. "Quite the privilege." 

"Hm," Ben demurred, slipping down a bit in his seat. "Less than you’d think." 

Drunk though he wasn’t, Ben had let go of a fair amount of propriety to a small amount of brandy, it seemed. Qui-Gon found it wonderfully amusing and oddly endearing—of course he’d never seen Ben like this, but he recognized the familiarity of his movements, his expressions, the cadence of his speech. Qui-Gon could have spent forever in that cozy bubble, matching up his memories of Ben with the man across the table from him now. 

There was more than that, though, that caught and held his attention fast, like a finger taking him by the chin and gently steering his head back around whenever he tried to look away. 

Ben was bloody _gorgeous_. 

Clean-shaven, auburn hair neatly combed back from his handsome face. Even the wisps of premature white at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that crinkled when he smiled or laughed—they just added the subtle dignity of age to him. Ben had shed his outer tunic, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt, and though simple and subdued, his clothing was clearly custom-tailored to skim the tight, lean angles of his body. 

Poised, innately graceful, viciously witty—Ben was everything Qui-Gon wasn’t in the best way possible, in every way Qui-Gon could imagine or remember. 

Had they never crossed paths at all before that evening, Qui-Gon knew he would have been trying his hardest to charm the man into his bed for the night. And into breakfast for the morning. Ben was no stranger, though—and only hours reunited with the dearest friend of his life, his earliest love—Qui-Gon was besotted. _Besotted_. 

Stars above, he was a goner, and he knew it. 

"A lot of lovers," Qui-Gon blurted in a sudden, brandy-flavored confession. 

Ben blinked at him. "What?" 

"That I’ve had," he clarified. "More than 'a few here and there’. But none that have ever stayed for very long." 

"Ah," Ben said. To his credit, he sensed something deeper beneath the blithe remark. He propped his elbow on the table and watched Qui-Gon, thoughtful. "Would you have liked them to?" 

"I don’t know," Qui-Gon answered honestly. "Not when I was younger, I don’t think. Now that I’m a bit more settled in life…" he shrugged. "I don’t want to wake up to an empty bed for the rest of my days." 

"I understand," Ben said, then fell quiet. His brow furrowed, the little worry line between his brows creased into permanence. 

Qui-Gon wished he could smooth it away with his fingers, and keep it away. 

Ben held his gaze, then let it drop to linger on Qui-Gon’s mouth for a moment, unsubtle about it. He smiled a bit oddly and looked back to the fireplace. "Attracting and keeping lovers have never been skills of mine, I’m afraid," he said, "but I would imagine that anyone waking next to you should count themselves wondrously lucky. For one morning or a thousand." 

Qui-Gon knew that the Force was a mysterious and inexplicable thing; he’d grown into a man who’d been shaped by those stories down to his very bones. He knew, in that moment, that if there were any single moral to those stories, it was _trust_. _Trust in the Force_ , because there were no two things that ever were or ever would be that weren’t connected by it. 

The fire popped and settled itself. Qui-Gon gazed at Ben, eyes fixed on his profile. "There are those who’d give everything they have just to lick the honey from your empty plate," he said quietly. 

"Is that so?" Ben snorted, laughing a bit under his breath. "And you?" he asked, teasing. 

Qui-Gon’s voice was low, each word purposeful. "I would take anything my Archon saw fit to give me." 

Ben glanced sidelong and his laughter faded. A beat passed, and then his smile faded as he realized something had changed between them. He stared across the table at Qui-Gon with that little furrow in his brow and, slowly, palpably, the air in the room grew heavier, charged. Ben’s expression was inscrutable, but he seemed to be considering his next words carefully. He settled on one. 

"Anything?" 

Qui-Gon shifted forward in his chair, only a fraction of an inch but more than enough to broadcast interest and intent. "Anything," he answered firmly. 

Understanding flickered across Ben’s face, and his fingers twitched against the tabletop. He just watched Qui-Gon for long moment. Then he wet his lower lip and asked, very softly, "Would you kneel for him?" 

Qui-Gon’s breath caught in his throat; something in his ribcage pulling tight with anticipation. Scarcely even a pause, then wood floorboards creaked as he slipped out of his chair, sank to his knees at Ben’s feet. He stared up, eyes indigo-darkened with unmasked desire and a silent challenge. 

Ben’s gaze tracked him, in that way of his that made Qui-Gon feel so small, almost weak in the face of it. "Would you give him what he asks?" 

"Yes," Qui-Gon answered breathlessly. 

Without breaking their gaze, Ben dragged his fingertips through the rich honey pooled on his plate. He held his hand forward. It dripped over the curve of his palm, slow and golden-bright onto the floor between them. 

"Show me." 

Qui-Gon obeyed without hesitation. He held Ben by the wrist as he licked him clean, swallowing the taste of sweetness and salt, replacing sticky honey with wetness that trailed between Ben’s fingers and stained the edge of his sleeve. He took Ben’s index and middle fingers down to the last knuckle, working his tongue over them. His gaze drifted up, heavy with want— _you could have more—I’ll give you so much more_ — 

Ben drew in a sudden, sharp breath. "Stop," he said. His finger jerked in Qui-Gon’s mouth, nails inadvertently scraping against his tongue. " _Stop_." 

Qui-Gon pulled off at once, loosening his grip around Ben’s wrist. "Ben?" 

"Not like this. Not—here." Ben slipped down to his knees and held Qui-Gon’s face between his hands, leaving a damp trail as he swept his thumb over Qui-Gon’s cheekbone. His expression was plaintive. "I shouldn’t have asked that of you," he said, then shook his head. "Don’t ever kneel for me again." 

Qui-Gon grinned into the curve of Ben’s palm, eyes bright. "Then you’ll have to lie on your back." 

Ben looked stunned, jaw hanging open. Then he snapped it shut and his ears pinked as he shoved at Qui-Gon’s shoulder. "You nerf," he grumbled. "I was being _serious_." 

Qui-Gon hooked his hands around Ben’s thighs and dragged him bodily forward, into a clumsy straddle over his knees. "So was I." He rested his elbows on Ben’s thighs, clasping his hands together at the small of his back. 

It was a testament to Ben’s upbringing that he could look so collected, sitting on another man’s lap like it was his throne. "This is all supposed to be very solemn, you know," he said primly. "There were meant to be heartfelt declarations. Sorrowful reunions. _Tears_." 

Qui-Gon tipped his chin up with a small, sly grin, utterly enamored and beyond all hope of rescue from it. "Come here," he beckoned. "Let me kiss you for real this time. Give you a proper welcome home, yeah?" 

"You’re ridiculous," Ben muttered. He obeyed, though, and let Qui-Gon draw him in, opening for a kiss that was slow and deep. Settling his weight heavier over Qui-Gon’s lap, Ben let himself sink into that kiss, eyes closed, pushing his fingers up into Qui-Gon’s dark hair, and he gave himself over to it. 

Qui-Gon wondered briefly if this was their _second-first_ kiss, or their _first-second kiss_. Then Ben made a happy, low noise in the back of his throat, dragged his teeth over Qui-Gon’s lower lip, and Qui-Gon didn’t think much at all after that. 

Ben finally drew away, fingers tightening against Qui-Gon’s scalp. He rested his forehead against Qui-Gon’s and said nothing, just shared breath with him for a long moment. 

"Ben?" 

Ben stirred against him. "I’ve missed that name terribly," he said softly. "Say it again." 

" _Ben_ ," Qui-Gon repeated. "Ben, Ben, _Ben_ …" he buried the words in Ben’s neck, tucked them between kisses, drew them up and along the line of Ben’s throat; he gave Ben’s own name back to him and let it linger, damp and warm, between his lips, on the tip of his tongue. 

"I got honey in your hair," Ben murmured, eyes half-lidded. "Take me upstairs?" 

  


* * *

  


Ben had automatically headed for Qui-Gon’s old attic loft before being forcibly steered towards the second-floor bedroom. 

"Came with the managerial promotion, did it?" Ben cackled, then squawked as Qui-Gon hauled him bodily over one shoulder, carried him upside-down into the room, and tumbled him onto that massive, wood-frame bed. 

Getting Ben naked was a revelation—not that it wouldn’t have been otherwise. Ben’s body was wiry, granted, but powerful and tight with lean, cut muscle, his skin pale but dusted with faint scars that spoke of intensive martial training. 

Qui-Gon tasted every inch he could get at, and thought to himself that, perhaps, the Archon’s bodyguards were just a smokescreen to distract from the far deadlier threat. It was wildly arousing and something Qui-Gon very, very much intended to explore later. 

They lost themselves in one another, unhurried, with no destination in mind but exploration. Finally, buried deep in the patchwork quilts, Ben had rolled over onto his belly and almost shyly, mumbling into the pillows, offered himself to Qui-Gon. "You can, if you’d like—have me like this—" 

Gods knew Qui-Gon wanted it. The thought of having Ben like that, learning him, _relearning_ him, claiming every last piece of him—it had nearly been enough to break his will. Any other person and it might have, but Ben deserved more. They’d only get a chance like this once, and Qui-Gon wanted it to be perfect for them both. 

"Not yet," Qui-Gon had rumbled into Ben’s ear. "Let me worship my Archon properly tonight, hm?" 

And worship he had. Slowly, intently, he worked Ben down piece-by-piece with his tongue, his mouth, and those rough, strong hands of his. Merciless and unyielding until he’d swallowed down every last shred of Ben’s self-restraint, had him incoherent and grabbing at the blankets. 

"Shh—relax and let me love on you." 

"Please, Qui, I need—please, _please_ —" Ben had begged the air, thighs trembling, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat; he’d blindly seized a fistful of Qui-Gon’s long hair, then flung an arm over his face and cried out into the crook of his elbow as he came down Qui-Gon’s throat. 

"Th-thank you—" 

"Oh, sweetness," Qui-Gon’s voice was roughened into a husky drawl, satisfied and possessive as he shifted up to kiss Ben back to life. "I’m not even _close_ to done with you yet." 

Ben hadn’t let go of him once throughout the night, starved for a kind touch and unwilling to give an inch once he had it, even after he fell asleep. Qui-Gon’s heart ached for him, and he couldn’t help but think, _When was the last time someone held you?_

  


* * *

  


"Hello there," Qui-Gon said warmly, when he felt Ben stir the next morning. 

He had left the bedroom windows cracked open. The early light was still watery-blue, air cooling and damp with the smell of the forest. He’d been awake for nearly an hour already, half-drowsing and peaceful as he watched the curtains drift, ghostlike on the breeze coming in. 

He wasn’t inclined yet to get up and start his morning pot of tea, or to disturb Ben’s weight tucked against his side. 

Ben huffed out a sleepy grunt, then a sleepier yawn, and slipped his arms tighter around Qui-Gon. "Is it raining?" he asked, voice drowsy-rough and muffled against Qui-Gon’s skin. 

Qui-Gon nudged the gauzy curtain back a bit. "Hm, sky’s thinkin’ about it," he said, pulling the quilt higher around Ben’s shoulders. "Drizzling for now." 

Ben made an indistinguishable noise and rubbed his cheek into the dark hair on Qui-Gon’s chest. "Still early?" 

"Still early," Qui-Gon assured him. He threaded his fingers through Ben’s own riotous morning-hair, tucking it back behind his ear. "How long can you stay?" 

He felt Ben’s answering sigh against his skin. 

"Long enough for a cup of tea, certainly," Ben murmured with a sleepy petulance Qui-Gon found endearing. "Though I suspect you’re not asking about this morning…" he added, letting the words trail off into unspoken question. 

"No." 

Ben shifted around so he could see Qui-Gon. He gave in to the inevitability of having the conversation before tea, though, and scooted up to sit next to him against the headboard. Their bare shoulders were pressed together. Ben sought Qui-Gon’s hand out beneath the blanket and held it loosely. "I have five days, perhaps six." 

"Your wife won’t miss you?" asked Qui-Gon, not unkindly. And not unreasonably, he thought. 

Ben smoothed down the top of the quilt. "After all the doom and gloom of the funeral, Satine is taking a rather spectacular, long holiday on Scarif." He paused and glanced sidelong at Qui-Gon, then added, "With our daughter." 

Qui-Gon lifted his head at that and stared at Ben, momentarily at a loss. "Daughter?" he echoed, surprise clear in his voice. The softness and warmth of Ben’s expression were enough to melt away his residual shock, though. The idea truly began to settle in Qui-Gon’s mind, and a joyous expression crept over his face. "Ben," he said, "you have a _daughter_." 

"I do," Ben said with a low laugh. "March of time, and all that, I suppose. I’d rather hoped to get a cup of tea in before I told you." 

Qui-Gon kissed Ben’s temple. "Tell me about her now." 

"She’s just turned two," Ben said, relaxing enough to let his head rest against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. "Mireya Ysonna Kryze Kenobi, but that’s all rather ridiculous. We call her Rey." He quieted, the restive motions of his hand stilled. "She is… wondrous," he said thoughtfully. "Everything I wish I could have been. Though sometimes I suspect all the personality that missed me went right to her in spades." 

"Did she inherit the fiery Kenobi mop-top?" 

"No, thankfully. Brown hair, like my mum’s before she dyed it. Hazel eyes," said Ben. "I think she has my smile, though. My grin. And Satine’s spirit—an absolute spitfire. Not a timid bone in her body." 

"Think she might have gotten that from the both of you," Qui-Gon mused. 

"She wants an orange-crested ball-tarantula," Ben mumbled, apropos of nothing. "And she wants to name it _Mr. Beans Beans Eight Legs_." 

Qui-Gon’s bark of laughter was bright, delighted at that unexpected anecdote. "Maybe you could compromise. Call it Beans. Or BB-8." 

Ben pushed up on his hand to look at Qui-Gon, incredulous. "I tell you my daughter wants a giant spider and you suggest a compromise on the _name?_ " 

"You’re the politician here, not me," Qui-Gon said airily. "You could bring her a paddle-duck. I seem to recall a young Ben Kenobi being enamored with them," he added. "Does she like ginger cookies?" 

"Would she be my daughter if she didn’t?" Ben asked, then sobered and sank back into his spot against Qui-Gon’s broad shoulder. "I should like to bring her here one day," he said. "If she could find just a piece of what I have, in this place…" 

Qui-Gon sensed the question hovering beneath the statement. He nudged his face down and kissed Ben’s temple, gentle and reassuring. "I’d love to meet her, when you do. If you and her mum’d like that." 

Qui-Gon’s heart ached for how obvious Ben’s relief was. 

"She’ll have you in her pocket in a minute, you know," Ben said, though he didn’t sound too bothered by the notion. 

"Would she be your daughter if she didn’t?" Qui-Gon said with a chuckle. He thought of summer days spent by the river with Ben, of coming home to the warmth of the kitchen, of the way Maran would always greet them with a plate of something she’d made with her own hands, just for them. He thought about being that person for someone else. 

Qui-Gon’s heart twisted inside his chest and he had the sudden, fierce, intractable realization that it was the kind of life he _wanted_. He coaxed Ben up to look him in the eye. "I know I can’t have you the way I might want. I know you have a life to maintain on Asmeru. But I want more than one morning like this with you, Ben," he said earnestly. "I want our chance back." He pressed his finger to the permanent furrow-line between Ben’s brows. "And I think you do too, yeah?" 

Ben’s expression wavered. "You would have me?" 

It should have seemed wrong, Qui-Gon thought, for a man to look so vulnerable when he commanded wealth and power to rival some of the Core planets. "'Course I would. I always would." 

"Could you stomach it? Being made some _consort to the High Archon?_ " 

"No," Qui-Gon said. He sought Ben’s hand out and turned it, inspecting the traces of gold lacquer beneath his fingernails, rubbing at them with his own thumb. "I’m not asking you to make me anything but what I am," he said plainly. "Just that you keep coming back to me." 

"I will," Ben said, expression radiating with a raw sort of hope. "Of course I will." 

"You sure you want a man the likes of me, though?" Qui-Gon was only half-teasing, his own expression dimmed by a shadow of self-doubt. "I’m not exactly nobility, you know." 

Ben sat up and cupped Qui-Gon’s face between his hands. "You are where it matters," he said firmly. "And far more so than any other man I know. I should count myself extraordinarily lucky to have a man the likes of you," he declared, and punctuated it with a kiss. 

They had each other again, then, slowly and lazily, with slick hands and nothing more than the rub of body-on-body. Qui-Gon let Ben guide him, complying easily when he was gently nudged onto his side. Foreheads pressed together, legs in a sweaty tangle, Qui-Gon held Ben’s face between his massive hands as he let Ben work them both with a single, fumbling grip. 

It wasn’t unlike the few times they’d done this as teenagers, and they both seemed to recognize that; it only made things all the sweeter—soft noises of pleasure interspersed with laughter and sheepish grins that all melted back down into low groans— 

It was enough to bring a man to his knees, hearing Ben like that, to undo him on the back of a deep and possessive groan, _Oh, sweetness—one of these nights, I’m gonna take you to pieces—show you everything, give you everything you deserve—_

Ben had laughed into the curve of Qui-Gon’s throat at that, bright and delighted. _Promises, promises…_

_You know I keep them._

Afterward, Qui-Gon went downstairs to make them tea and put together a tray of buttery toast drizzled in leftover muja jam. He took a moment to bin the grossly over-proofed dough for his breakfast rolls, before it staged a coup and took over his entire chiller. 

He’d left Ben a happy, formless lump in the middle of the bed; when he returned, though, Ben had wrapped himself in one of Qui-Gon’s overlarge linen tunics, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he leaned against the window frame. He was observing the outside world, drizzly and morning-foggy and green-damp. His own expression matched it, cloudy and deeply thoughtful. 

"What is it about this place?" 

"The Force," Qui-Gon answered easily, almost glibly. It was his answer for everything in the universe both wondrous and inexplicable. He expected Ben to laugh it off, or maybe roll his eyes in fond exasperation—where Qui-Gon was a man who found satisfaction in the simple mystery of the world, he knew Ben had a mind that could only rest on a bed of logic and order. He ran his palm along the lean curve of Ben’s back, reaching around to press a cup of steaming tea into his hand. 

"I think you’re right, you know," Ben murmured, accepting it and letting himself relax against Qui-Gon’s chest. 

Qui-Gon laughed in delight at the answer and propped his chin on Ben’s head. "All those years of skepticism—what finally convinced you?" 

Ben sipped his tea and considered the question for a moment. "I asked you once if the Force brought people together," he finally said. "Worlds away, nearly sixteen years apart, married with a family of my own—yet here I am, wearing your shirt and drinking your tea." Ben frowned and extended his hand outside, palm upturned to catch the first few, shy drops of the morning’s true shower. "Wondering about the rain from your bedroom window." 

Qui-Gon pushed his fingers into the gap of fabric at Ben’s neck. He nudged it down to expose more of that winter-pale skin, then followed the path of his fingers with soft, dry kisses. "You’ve lost all your freckles," he murmured, mouth against Ben’s shoulder. "Come down to the river with me this afternoon." 

Ben’s voice was low, warm with amusement and affection. "You think we’ll find them there?" he asked. "In this weather?" 

"It’ll clear up." 

Ben pulled his hand back inside and pressed it against his mouth, tasting the rain from his own skin. Around them, the morning breeze drifted in with the scent of grass and water, heavy with the promise of summer’s coming bloom.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satine adores Qui-Gon, Rey grows up with three parents who love her endlessly, Satine and Obi-Wan let her be whatever she wants in life, Rey still decides to take over as Archon, and she’s so brilliant that Obi-Wan does, at the end of it all, abdicate early so he can be with Qui-Gon on the Twelfth happily ever after. 
> 
> The End.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> Thanks for coming along on this self-indulgent journey with me. Next stop, a Great British Bake Off AU, in _spaaaace!_ (Not really.)
> 
> As always, a tremendous, heart-felt thank you to merry_amelie for her amazing beta work. Qui-Gon has a table on permanent reserve for you in his bakery, my friend (the cozy one next to the fireplace, but that still has a good view out of the front window). Sunberry brioche rolls on the house for you and the lads. :)


End file.
